Vatican Cameos
by BlaineRedVientistWatson
Summary: "Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?" "We solve crimes. I blog about it, and he forgets his pants. I wouldn't hold out too much hope." A collection of drabbles. Feat. AU, canon, and spoilers. Rated K, some chapters rated T. I own nothing but my OCs.
1. Work Experience

**Title: Vatican Cameos****.  
Author: Holly Swift  
Rating: K-T.  
Full summary: "Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?" "We solve crimes. I blog about it, and he forgets his pants. I wouldn't hold out too much hope."  
**

**A collection of one-shots, two-shots, song-fics, drabble-fics, multi-chaps and everything else, surrounding the lives of Sherlock and John. Some AU, some canon, and some Reichenbach spoilers. Most chapters would be considered K, some rated T for swears/triggers/mentions, etc.  
**

* * *

_I decided to do a drabble fic, mainly because I need a break from my other fics. Don't expect daily updates. I'm gonna be busy, life's gonna get in the way, blah, blah, blah, but I will do my best to update as much as possible.  
_

_Most of the chapters are going to be focusing on John and Sherlock, with some of the other characters thrown in now and then._

**_Don't own Sherlock, or anything you recognise in this fic._**

_Enjoy, and remember to review with your thoughts._

* * *

_Chapter 1 - Work Experience._

* * *

He didn't want to fake his death. It hurt to see his blogger so sad, and lost, and alone. Whenever he and John were at the graveyard, he wanted to jump up and down, to let John know he was okay.

He couldn't. But God, how he wanted to.

He had a job. He had to dismantle Moriarty's web, piece by piece, before the madman got his way.

So when Sherlock saw John at the graveyard, broken and crying, it took all his willpower not to run up and hug the ex-army-doctor.

All because he had a job to do.

* * *

_Exactly 100 words, I think. _

_Nothing wrong with starting off a new fic with some lovely Reichenbach Angst._

_Muchlove._


	2. Home

_I'm sorry if this has been done before, I just really wanted to try it out myself, because I've had the idea for a while now and I just thought I'd do my own spin on it. This is an AU where John is deployed and the Yarders don't know about him. Established!Johnlock.  
_

_**Don't own Sherlock, or anything recognisable.**_

_This is cut into scenes, so I hope it's easy to understand. This is pretty long (probably the longest Chapter I've ever written of any fic I've done), but it's got a happy ending. It took me a while to get it done, but I'm (kind of) happy with it._

_Enjoy.  
_

* * *

_Chapter 2 - Home.  
_

* * *

"I miss you."

_"I know."_

"Why can't you come back?"

_"Because I'm still here for another... three months. I'll let you know as soon as I can whether or not I can get off early. If not... Three months isn't that long, Sherlock."_

Sherlock sighed. He was sick of this. Sick of only being able to talk to John on Skype and through e-mails. Why did John have to be deployed to Afghanistan, why did he have to go and play doctor in one of the most dangerous places in the world? He sighed again.

_"Sherlock, please, I know how you feel. This is killing me, too. But I promise, as soon as I get back, I'm going straight to Baker Street and I'm going to stay there to make up for being gone for so long."_

John, an army doctor and Sherlock's partner (Sherlock often complained that "boyfriend" made him sound like a love-struck teenage girl), ran a hand through is short cut, dirty blonde hair. He looked tired, he was thinner, and more often then not, when Sherlock saw him he usually had blood on him, be it his own or a patient's.

Sherlock hated it.

"Is there no way that you can get them to let you off early? At all?" Sherlock asked, "There has to be something you can do!"

_"Nothing I haven't already tried, love,"_ John replied, looking down at his lap. "_I-"_

_"WATSON!" _someone shouted from behind John, "_we need you out there, Jenkins and Roberts are missing limbs, hurry up!"_

_"Alright!"_ John turned back to the screen with a pained expression. _"I've got to go, Sherlock, but I promise I'll get back home as soon as I can. I love you."_

"I love you, too," Sherlock said, nodding, "now go play hero."

John smiled softly. _"Thanks-"_

_"WATSON, OUT HERE, NOW!"_

John sighed, _"Bye, Sherlock."_

Sherlock's laptop screen fuzzed, then turned black. He clicked out of Skype and shut his laptop down, placing it on the coffee table. He lay down on the sofa and curled into a ball, tucking his knees into his chin.

He missed John.

* * *

"Alright," Lestrade said, walking up to Sherlock at a crime-scene, "what's up with you today?"

Sherlock wasn't being himself, at all. He was distracted, barely payed attention to Lestrade or the case, was snapping at everyone - more so than usual. Lestrade was worried.

"Nothing is up, Lestrade," Sherlock answered, looking over at the bus that was driving down the road.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, and Sherlock looked over at him with glassy, red-rimmed eyes.

"Bloody hell- Sherlock, have you been crying?"

"No, I have not," Sherlock snapped, turning away, "and even if I have, it's none of your business why."

"Sherlock, I don't think I've ever seen you cry before-"

"I'M NOT CRYING!" Sherlock yelled, turning to glare at Lestrade. The Detective-Inspector took a step back, looking around. A few of the officers had turned to see what all the shouting was about.

"Alright, Sherlock, relax." Lestrade held up his hands, "It's okay."

"No, it's not! It's not okay!" Sherlock yelled, "It's not okay, because I'm here, and John's so far away in bloody Afghanistan, and he won't be home for three months, and it's torture!"

"Wait- who's John?" Lestrade asked.

"He's..." Sherlock paused, "He's a friend."

"And he's been deployed?"

Sherlock merely nodded, looking away again, fire blazing in his eyes. He was angry. Angry at John for going, angry at the officers over there that kept his John away, angry at Lestrade because he didn't know, angry that he had to deal with all this.

He didn't want to deal with all this. Every day was worse, knowing John was so far away, and in constant danger. Everyday, the dull ache in his stomach got worse and worse, and Sherlock didn't know how much longer he could wait.

"Sherlock, it's only three months. I'm sure you can survive."

"It's not only three months, Lestrade," Sherlock said quietly, "he's been gone for nearly three years already! It's tearing me apart!"

"Three years?" Lestrade echoed, "Wow. Be happy he's even alive, mate."

"You think I'm not?"

* * *

_"Anything interesting happening?"_John asked, like he always did. It was the following week, and the evening was bitter cold. The snow was lightly tapping the window. Christmas was coming up soon, and the cold Winter weather hit London hard.

Not like John would know.

Bloody Afghanistan.

"No," Sherlock replied, "not really. I told Lestrade about you."

_"The Detective-Inspector? That Lestrade?"_

"Do I know any other Lestrades?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

_"Suppose not," _John smiled, _"What did you tell him? What did he say?_"

"It was..." Sherlock began, then stopped. He didn't want to tell John he had been crying. He didn't want John to have to deal with that guilt.

_"It was... What?" _John asked, smile dropping slightly.

"Well... I was in a bad mood at a crime scene," Sherlock mumbled, not looking at the screen, "and he was asking what was wrong. I told him I missed you."

_"Oh? What did you say?"_

"I said... you were my friend who was deployed and wouldn't be back for another three months, and that you had been gone for nearly three years already."

_"Oh.."_ John said, looking away.

"John, I-" Sherlock began, but he was cut off.

_"JOHN WE'VE GOT ANOTHER ONE!"_

John sighed, _"I've got to go again Sherlock, but we'll talk soon."_

"Right," Sherlock mumbled, "I love you."

John paused, glancing at his lap. "I love you too. Bye."

The screen fuzzed, and went black.

Sherlock frowned. It seemed like John was... hesitant, to say "I love you" back.

What did Sherlock do?

* * *

"Sherlock, are you even listening?" Lestrade snapped, shaking Sherlock's shoulder. The Consulting Detective snapped out of his daze and shied away from Lestrade.

"What, Lestrade?"

Sherlock snapped, glaring at the Detective-Inspector.

"Alright, sunshine," Lestrade said calmly, "calm down."

Sherlock growled, looking away.

"Are you still upset over that John bloke?" Lestrade asked, "When was the last time you talked?"

"A week ago," Sherlock replied, rubbing his temples, "I haven't heard from him since. No e-mails, no video chatting, nothing."

"Well, maybe he's just busy," Lestrade suggested, "after all, you said he was a doctor as well as a soldier. He's probably just off saving lives, no worries."

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed.

Lestrade sighed, "Look, Sherlock, I need you on this case, and I need you at your best! We're stuck, and," he sighed, and lowered his voice, "and we really need you. We're nothing right now. So, please, just try to pay attention? I'll come over later and we can talk about this John guy, but now we need to focus, okay?"

"Fine," Sherlock snapped, "fine, I'll help you. And I don't need you to come over; I'm fine."

"Yeah," Lestrade said, raising an eyebrow, "sure you are."

* * *

"Just promise me you'll come back in one piece?" Sherlock asked, eyes going soft, "Promise me you won't be one-armed, or stuck in a wheelchair?"

John laughed, smiling, _"I promise, no fatal injuries. I'll come back with bumps and bruises, that's it."_

Sherlock pouted, leaning back in his chair. He crossed his arms, "You better. No more than bumps and bruises."

"_Pinky promise."_

"Please, John," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "that's highly immature."

_"Come on, you love it,"_ John winked.

Sherlock looked away, trying to hide his smile.

"_How is Ms. Hudson?"_ John asked after a moment, smiling softly.

"She's fine," Sherlock replied, "still doting on you and checking up on the flat. A girl is after taking the flat upstairs, she moved in a couple of days ago."

"_Yeah?"_ John asked, "_Have you met her properly yet?"_

"Ms. Hudson introduced us yesterday."

_"Oh?" _John raised an eyebrow, then smirked and leaned back in his chair. Sherlock could see cream walls and a dresser behind John. There was a lamp, a little bottle, and some pills.

"John," Sherlock said, eyes wide, "what's that on the dresser? The bottle? And the pills?"

John's smile dropped, and he turned around, glancing at the dresser. He turned back to face Sherlock with a forced smile.

_"Nothing, love," _he said, _"just some stuff to help me sleep._"

"Right..." Sherlock was still curious, but kept the questions to himself.

_"So,"_ John said after a moment, _"the new girl? What are your deductions?"_

And the rest of the night involved Sherlock explaining to John how his new neighbour was a budding writer with a love for detective novels and violins.

John scoffed when Sherlock finished, _"Well,"_ he said, _"let me know if she tries to make a move on my violin-playing detective, then. Can't have that."_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please," he said, "she's a pacifist. Like I would ever go for someone who doesn't like a good fight."

_"Imagine if you did?_" John asked, laughing, _"Where would I be?"_

"Home." Sherlock answered without thinking. In an instant, John stopped laughing, frowning slightly, looking down at his hands. Sherlock's stomach dropped.

"_I'll be back soon, love,"_ John said, looking up, _"I swear."_

Sherlock just nodded.

* * *

"Alright," Lestrade said, grinning, "that's it. Case done, in time for Christmas and everything."

Christmas Eve. It was a cool afternoon, the ground was covered in a thick layer of pearly white snow. Frost covered windows and trees, adding a shine to everything. The sky was full of white, puffy clouds. The Yarders were spread across the field, some over at the ambulence, some over with the murderer, some over at the dead body sprawled in the snow. Sherlock and Lestrade were over by the fence surrounding the snow-covered field. Their breaths came out in a crisp fog, and gloves covered their near-frozen hands.

Sherlock just hummed, closing the case file and handing it to Lestrade. "You know how I hate Christmas, Lestrade, don't try make the situation any better."

"Why do you hate the holidays, anyway?" Lestrade asked, glancing at Sherlock. The latter just shrugged, looking away.

Lestrade sighed. Sherlock was like this every Christmas for the past few years. He became more distant than usual, only Ms. Hudson ever heard from him unless there was a case. Sometimes it worried Lestrade, sometimes he got so annoyed at the Consulting Detective that he just left him alone for the few weeks surrounding the holiday.

"Come on," Lestrade said, "a few of the lads are heading to the pub for a bit. You coming?"

"Why do you even ask, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes at the Detective-Inspector, "You know I'm not interested. I tell you this every year."

"Still, though," Lestrade said, shrugging, "sometimes I wish you'd actually come along. Get you to loosen up a bit, you're always so down and anti-social at the holidays."

"It's just not my preferred time of the year," Sherlock replied coolly.

"Come on, Sherlock," Lestrade started, but was cut off when one of the Yarders came jogging up to the pair. It was Donovan.

She stopped when she reached the two men, taking a moment to catch her breath. "Someone here for you, freak," she said, looking at Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow, "some guy."

"Makes no sense," Sherlock said, glancing at Lestrade, who looked just as confused as Sherlock, "did he say who he was?"

"Didn't say a name, just said that he thought three months was too long, and he didn't want you to be alone for Christmas." She snorted, ignoring the way Sherlock's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. "I don't see what interest he'd have in you, though," she said, rolling her eyes, "freak."

"John," Sherlock whispered, frozen.

"That army bloke?" Lestrade asked, looking at Sherlock, but Sherlock was still frozen.

_"Sherlock!"_ someone yelled, and the trio looked up to see a thirty-something year old man standing over near the ambulance. He was about a foot shorter than Sherlock, his hair was cut short, and he was wearing a thick, camouflage-coloured snow jacket. His khaki pants were tucked into black boots, and he was grinning like crazy. His eyes were light blue, shining, and his skin was tanned.

The man limped over to the trio. "I went back to Baker Street but you weren't there," he said, "but Ms. Hudson was in and she said you'd run off here, so I figured I'd surprise you and say hi."

"Excuse me," Donovan said, frowning, "but who exactly a_re_ you?"

"You promised," Sherlock said, and they all turned to look at him.

"I promised you a lot of things," the man said. "I promised I'd come home soon-"

"Yes, and you kept that- but you also promised that you wouldn't come home with more than bumps and bruises, yet here you stand with two gun-shot wounds, a fractured wrist that's still healing and what looks like it would have been a pretty nasty cut from your left ear to your left temple," Sherlock said, snapping back into his usual self. "Much more than just bumps and bruises."

The man shrugged, still smiling. It was almost infectious. "I would have been extremely lucky to come home not battered in some way," he said, "you know that."

There was a silent moment, and then...

"God, I've missed you," the man said, smile splitting into a full grin. Sherlock grinned and took a step forward, embracing the shorter man in a tight hug. They fit together like puzzle pieces, the shorter man's head fitting neatly under Sherlock's chin. They stood there, hugging, wrapped up in there own little world.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Donovan asked, crossing her arms and frowning again. Sherlock and the man stepped apart, cheeks red, but Lestrade knew it wasn't from the cold. "Who are you?" Donovan repeated, looking at the short man beside Sherlock.

He held a hand out to Donovan, "Dr. John Watson, army doctor and soldier recently returned from Afghanistan, at your service." Donovan took the hand, shocked. "You're Sally Donovan, right?" John asked, and Donovan's jaw dropped.

"How the hell did you-"

"Sherlock complains about you a lot," John grinned, letting go of Donovan's hand and stepping back beside Sherlock, who was still smiling. "He said that you were the one who calls him a 'freak' and sleeps around a lot." Lestrade had to hold a hand to his mouth to stop himself from laughing. "I'm a soldier whose been training for five years," John continued, staring intently at Donovan, "and have been in Afghanistan for three; so remember that next time you call him," he jerked a thumb at Sherlock, "a 'freak', his partner could kill you in thirty-seven different ways, sixteen of which are without any weapon at all."

Donovan's jaw dropped, and Lestrade couldn't keep it in any longer- he burst out laughing. Sherlock chuckled and kissed John's temple, smiling. "And that's why I love you," Sherlock said, and John just grinned at the taller man.

Donovan's eyes widened, "You love him?" she asked, and Sherlock and John turned to her, "so that means you're..."

She stopped short at the look John gave her. "Yes," he said, grasping Sherlock's hand in his own, "we are. Is that a problem?"

"No," she said, "I just never thought anyone could love the frea- ah, I mean, Sherlock."

"Well, I do."

Donovan just stayed silent. After a moment she turned and walked over to Anderson at the ambulance, scowling and snapping at him when he tried to talk to her.

"Wow," Lestrade said after she had left, "the only other person I see talking like that to Donovan is Sherlock." He held a hand out to John, grinning, "I'm Greg Lestrade. Nice to finally meet you."

"'Finally' meet me?" John echoed, shaking hands with Lestrade.

Lestrade nodded, "Sherlock's been moping about for ages, missing you like crazy," John looked up at Sherlock, who was blushing lightly and looking away. "He was especially angsty around Christmas, wouldn't tell us why."

"Christmas?" John echoed, then nodded. He looked up at Sherlock, "That reminds me, your anniversary presents are at home, love. It was easier to leave it there than bring it here."

"Plural?" Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised.

"I've missed three anniversarys, Sherlock, I had to make up for it."

Sherlock's expression softened, and he tugged John into another hug, "You being here makes up for it."

"Oooww, watch the shoulder, love."

"Sorry," Sherlock said, moving his arm from John's shoulder. He kissed the top of the blonde man's head.

"Right," Lestrade said, "I doubt you'd want to come for those drinks, then, Sherlock. We're finished here, so you and John can head off. I'll pop by tomorrow. Give Ms. Hudson my best, nice to meet you, John," he finished, walking away.

Sherlock and John grinned at each other.

"Home?" Sherlock asked.

"Home," John replied, taking Sherlock's hand again.

* * *

_And scene! That's a wrap! Next shot!_

_The ending was a bit... Quick. Seems Lestrade was in a hurry to leave.  
_

_*cough* Awkward sexual tension *cough*.  
_

_Review, please._

_Muchlove._


	3. Sign

_**Don't own Sherlock, or anything you recognise in this fic.**_

_A word challenge from my dear brother: Sign._

_Decided to make this an AU, where John's time in Afghanistan has rendered him deaf. What can I say, I like writing AUs._

_Remember to review, favourite, subscribe to alerts, yadda yadda yadda..._

* * *

_Chapter 3 - Sign._

* * *

When Sherlock was ten years old, he learned sign language.

No one, not Mycroft, or Mummy, or even his tutor knew why. He randomly appeared in class, a mute, only communicating through sign language.

Needless to say, it caused a lot of frustration. Sherlock was frustrated because no-one knew what he was saying (nor did they bother to learn sign language to find out), and everyone else was frustrated because they knew he was probably only insulting them, anyway, which is why they never bothered to learn.

Mycroft did, eventually. When Sherlock was twelve, after two years of being a mute, Mycroft signed "Will you stop insulting people and at least act like you're complimenting them, just because they can't understand what you're trying to say doesn't mean they don't know it's an insult by the faces your making".

Sherlock didn't sign much after that.

Twenty years passed, and Sherlock was living in 221b, alone, struggling to pay rent despite the fact that all the money he would need was neatly packed away in a box, in a safe, in a bank far away from where he was. He had been working with Lestrade and the Yard, helping them out on the majority of difficult cases, yet he never got paid. He didn't want to go to Mycroft, or Mummy, or the bank to get Mycroft's money that was in a box, in a safe, in a bank far away.

He could survive on his own.

But only just.

Which is why he decided to look for a flatmate. Someone to split the rent, someone who could pay for the boring necessities, someone who wouldn't mind him not talking for days on end or getting up to play the violin at three in the morning.

Well. That narrowed his search down considerably.

When he said he didn't think anyone would want him as a flatmate to Mike Stamford, it was just a passing comment. _Any luck with the flatmate search, Sherlock? No. Why not? It's ridiculously obvious- limbs in the fridge, violin at three in the morning, experiments that ruin the furniture, the walls, the carpet, the stairs- who would want me as a flatmate?_

He certainly didn't expect Mike to go and find one, and on the very same day, no less.

Army doctor. Psychosomatic limp. Recently returned due to injuries. Tan line at the wrist and at the neck- abroad but not sunbathing. Afghanistan or Iraq? _Must remember to ask that._ Head keeps cocking around, as if he's trying to hear something but can't quite make it out.

Ah.

_Ahhh._

John Watson was deaf.

Well, partially, at least. Which would be another reason for him to be sent back to London, along with the limp and the shoulder problems- probably shot, scar tissue, causes problems when shooting, even though he would have a steady hand under stress.

Everything clicked into place when Sherlock realised John was looking for a flatmate as well.

Won't hear the violin at three in the morning.

Won't notice if Sherlock stops talking- starts talking, even.

Won't hear any explosions from experiments.

Essentially, John Watson would be the perfect flatmate.

"_Afghanistan or Iraq_?" Sherlock signed, and John's eyes widened.

"_Afghanistan_," the ex-army doctor signed back, "_how did you_-"

Sherlock's hands moved rapidly, going through his deduction quickly, but slow enough for John to understand what Sherlock was signing.

"_Amazing_," John signed, once the consulting detective was finished.

Oh yes. Perfect flatmate indeed.

* * *

_Let me know if you want me to continue this- as an arc or as a seperate story. I quite like writing in this 'verse. Gives a different perspective to their relationship, I suppose._

_Muchlove._


	4. The Aftermath

_ANGSTY-ANGSTY-ANGSTY-ANGST HERE. So sad :'c_

_Canon character death warning! Italics are John's thoughts, unless in quotation marks. Rated T for a few choice swears._

_**I don't own Sherlock, or anything recognisable.**_

_Anyway- read on, and enjoy._

_ALSO, anyone who reviewed the last chapter ("Sign"), asking about a continuation, be sure to check the authors note at the bottom of THIS chapter, for details of what's going down!_

* * *

_Chapter 4 - The Aftermath._

* * *

"_SHERLOCK!" _John screamed, ducking in behind a crate and the bomb went off.

The army doctor shut his eyes, body curling in on itself, ensuring the least amount of damage.

_Breathe. Remember your training, Watson._

John clapped his hands over his ears as each of the bombs went off down the road.

_One. Two. Three. Four- how many were planted?- Six. Seven._

Silence, save for the ringing in his ears.

He slowly opened his eyes. From his spot behind the mauled crate, he could see large chunks of debris littered around the street. Buildings barely standing, windows blown in, pavement cracked.

The whole street was demolished.

Where was Sherlock?

John shifted in his place, dust, silt and ash swirling in the air around him. He coughed, and held his scarf up around his mouth. He tied it in place and stood up, holding the pistol carefully in his left hand, steadying himself with his right. Gripping the gun with both hands once his head stopped spinning, John looked around the edge of the crate.

No movement, complete destruction.

_Where the bloody hell are you?  
_

He walked slowly down the street, keeping to the shadows and under cover. He wasn't sure if the bombers and snipers were still around, some could have survived the blasts.

John picked up a small chunk of plaster that had blown off one of the nearby buildings. Juggling it in his hand, he threw it out into the open, expecting a shower of bullets or a grenade to be sent it's way.

_Nothing. Area clear._

He pulled the scarf down from his mouth. _"Sherlock!"_ John called out, voice hoarse from the ash and dust he had inhaled. He moved out from his cover under a larger piece of concrete, "Sherlock," he yelled, louder this time, "Sherlock,_where are you!"_

Nothing. And then-

_"J-John_," someone called from the building next to him, and John whirled around, gun raised.

"Sherlock?" he responded, taking a hesitant step forward.

"Obviously," the voice coughed, and John knew it was him.

"Sherlock!" John limped over to the broken window and hopped into the building, slipping on debris and landing on his twisted ankle. He dropped to his knees and groaned in pain.

"John, are you-" Sherlock coughed, "-you alright?"

"Fine," John hissed through gritted teeth, getting to his feet shakily and making his way over to the doorway. It led to a hallway. "Where are you?"

"Second w-window."

John spun around and saw the second and third windows, blown inwards, with large pieces of debris littered underneath. Nearly half the wall was demolished.

"Oh God, Sherlock!" John rushed over, dropping to his knees and pulling debris away. It took a few minutes because John wasn't strong enough to pull the brickwork away quickly, and he began to panic, but soon he saw a hand- an arm- chest- head- Sherlock.

_Eyes closed. Pulse slow and weak. Breath shallow. Numerous injuries and-_

_Oh god._

A large piece of debris was sticking out of Sherlock's back, which was slick with free-flowing blood. The sickly red liquid pooled at his lower back, covering his clothes and surrounding debris.  
_  
Oh please god no._

"Sherlock, come on," John hissed, laying the Consulting Detective's head in his lap, medical training kicking in, "open your eyes, come on."

Sherlock hummed in reply, opening his eyes slowly. They were unfocused. John weakly clicked his fingers in front of Sherlock's face and his eyes focused on John's shocked expression. His pale face was smudged with ash and silt, and there was blood clotted on his left cheek.

"Evening," Sherlock coughed, and John laughed.

"Afternoon, actually," he replied. "You have to stay with me, Sherlock, alright?" he pleaded, "You can't go asleep now. Come on, deduce something, stay awake. Deduce me."

"You hate it when I deduce you," Sherlock groaned.

"Not when you're like this," John replied swiftly, eyeing Sherlock's other injuries, "come on, tell me what just happened."

_Keep him awake until Mycroft or Lestrade or someone gets here. Don't let him go asleep. Keep his brain active._

"You... the bombers..." Sherlock whispered, eyes glazing around the room, "...bombs in the bank.."

"You're doing great, Sherlock," John encouraged him, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the tears from falling, "kee-keep going."

"My head hurts, John," Sherlock moaned.

"I know it does, so does mine," John began stalling. He needed to keep Sherlock awake. "Remember the first time we met," he began, "and you thought I had an alcoholic brother?"

"Sister..." Sherlock mumbled, "...always something..."

"And you could deduce nearly everything about me because I had a tan line on my wrists, a limp and Harry's phone, remember?"

Sherlock just hummed in reply again, eyes closing slightly.

"Eyes open, Sherlock," John warned, lifting his flatmate's head up and brushing the curls out of his eyes.

"John... need to tell you... something..." Sherlock gasped out.

"Keep talking to me, Sherlock," John whispered, "I'm right here."

"I'm... m'sorry... for everything..." Sherlock began slowly, "...for calling you... idiot... insulting you..."

John began to shake his head, "No," he muttered, "no, you're not giving me the goodbye speech," he shook his head again, "I won't let you."

"John... Please."

"Don't die on me, you bastard," John hissed, tears slipping down his cheek, "don't you dare fucking die on me, Sherlock Holmes. Not again."

"I apologise for the Fall..." Sherlock wheezed, "...had to save you and Lestrade... and Ms. Hudson..."

"Jesus, Sherlock, don't."

_Not again. I just got you back. I love you. Please._

"Didn't mean to hurt you..." Sherlock's eyes closed a bit more, so he was just barely squinting. He coughed, and blood trickled out of his mouth.

"Shi- OK, OK, you'll be fine," John wasn't sure if he was trying to reassure Sherlock, or just trying to convince himself. "It's just a flesh wound," he said, laughing nervously, "we can patch it right up, you'll see."

"...-love y-..." Sherlock coughed once more, "...love you."

His eyes closed completely.

"Sherlock," John held his Shoulders and shook him lightly, "Sherlock, don't do this. Don't die again, please, you can't..."

John didn't bother trying to wipe the tears away.

"I love you, too," John whispered, "and you can't be gone. Not again. God-" he took a few deep breaths, closed his eyes.

_Not real. Not real. Another war nightmare with Sherlock. Not. Fucking. Real._

No matter how many times he wished it, nothing could change the facts.

He loved Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock -despite being a high-functioning sociopath, despite the teasing, the taunting, the background hurt and fears- loved him in return.

But Sherlock was dead.

John wiped away the tears that were trailing down his cheeks and sat back, taking deep breaths.

Sherlock just stayed completely silent.

* * *

_Is it bad I actually cried writing this? D': ANYWAY. Hope you enjoyed it (even though it's probably the most angsty thing I've ever written)._

_**NOW**. Down to business._

_There's been quite a bit of interest in a continuation of the last chapter, "Sign", as a seperate story. Good news; due to said interest, I WILL BE WRITING A FULL AU ABOUT OUR DEAR DEAF JOHN._

_A word of caution, however, it most probably WON'T be posted until AFTER summer. (I know, shock, gasp, horror, that's such a long wait!) But, I want to make sure I've got a my plot line sorted out, and that I've got a few chapters written before I post (understandable, right?). So, if you guys want to read it, you'll have to wait, but subscribe for author alerts, and you'll be the first to know when it's up! Anymore questions about it, or if you have any ideas you'd like to contribute to the story, PM ME! We can discuss things in a message._

_So that's it! Thanks again for reading, remember to subscribe to alerts, favourite, review, et cetera._

_Muchlove._


	5. The Start

_**Don't own Sherlock, or anything recognisable.**_

_Fair warning, there's curses, along with small mentions of abuse, abandonment, nasty stuff._

_So here's some teenage John and Sherlock. Is it weird I can imagine Sherlock was bullied, and John would be all "HEY, I don't know you, but subconsciously I want to help people when I'm older, so I'ma help yoooouuuu!"? Anyway, I'm rambling, right? I love teen!Lock fics, some of them are actually brilliant. So this one's for any fanfic author whose written and posted awesome teen!Lock fics; you guys gave a new side to the fandom, hope I do it justice!_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

_Chapter 5 - The Start  
_

* * *

"Come on, Watson!" Claire called out, laughing, "come down to the village with us!"

"I can't," John replied, "my sister's coming home and, well, we've all gotta be there, you know?"

Claire and Andy gave low whistles. "Good luck, anyway," Andy said, "but you're still up for rugby tomorrow, right?"

John nodded, picking up his bag, "Definitely. But now I've really got to-"

"-we know," Claire interrupted, backing up and waving at John, "We'll see you later, Watson!"

John waved, smiling weakly at his friends. He turned on his heel and walked through the main doors of the school, down the steps and began the half hour walk home.

There was a usual routine when John walked home. He passed the small shopping center after ten minutes, passed his cousin's house at the fifteen minute mark, the church and community-youth center at twenty minutes, and then just walking for the last ten minutes.

Today, however, John would be delayed.

He hit the fifteen minute mark, no problem. It was a nice day, sun shining, barely any clouds, so John was quite content with walking home. He was on time, which meant he could grab a shower and help his mum prepare dinner for Harry's homecoming.

He was just passing by the community-youth centre when he heard them.

_"Freak!"_

_"Fairy!"_

_"Sherlock Homo!"_

Thump-thump-thump-thump-

_"Look at him, lads, can't even take a few punches!"_

John froze mid-step and looked around. The voices were coming from behind the center. It sounded like a bunch of guys... beating someone up?

Looking around again, John walked silently over to the door of the center. He dropped his bag in the porch, rolling up his sleeves. He edged his way around the center, voices and shouts becoming louder and louder as he got closer to the back.

He reached the corner and looked around, blood boiling at what he saw.

Six different guys - some of which were bigger than some of the rugby players - all beating up a frail looking teen. The leader of the group was the one taunting the teen, laughing with each blow and groan. He was wearing a shirt with the sleeves ripped off, showing off well-muscled, tattooed arms, along with ripped jeans. He was one of the bigger ones. The other guys looked a little less intimidating, some wearing hats or bandanas, others with tattoos. All together, John wouldn't like to come up against them alone.

Yet, apparently, one teen did.

He was incredibly pale, and whether that was from the loss of blood or just not getting any sun, John wasn't sure. His clothes were more formal, a dress shirt and black pants with black shoes. His face was bruised, his arms and hands were scraped, and there was blood.

A lot of blood.

He didn't know why, but John instantly wanted to help the poor kid. Wanted to go stand up for him, to fight back.

So, without really thinking about what he was entering into, John decided to help.

The group had surrounded the teen, so their backs were facing John. It gave him an advantage- they wouldn't see him coming.

He crept around the corner, moving silently against the wall. There was a couple of branches beside the wall, so John picked the bigger one up, testing the weight. He clutched it with both hands and moved forwards, unnoticed.

"I mean really," the leader scoffed, "this is kind of pathetic, yeah? Why don't you just crawl under a rock or summat, right, and then just stay away from all of us? No one wants you here, freak!"

"Pretty sure your father doesn't want you at home, either," the bloodied and bruised teen hissed, "yet you still go crawling back to him, if the state of your knees is anything to go by!"

The leader growled and took a step forward, "You watch it you, or-"

"Or what?" the teen asked, "you'll send your parents after me?" He laughed darkly, "Please," he said, rolling his eyes, "you're mother ran out about ten years ago, and you're father is an abusive alcoholic! Like they'd care!"

"THAT'S IT YOU FUCKING-"

_"OI!" _John yelled, running forward and slamming the branch into the back of the leader's head. He dropped like a fly, landing face first in front of the teen, out cold.

John turned to the other members, "Anyone else wanna have a go?" he asked, swinging the branch. The others looked at the dropped fly, then back at John.

They ran.

John paused for a minute, branch still raised, surprised.

"Cowards," he said after a moment, then turned to the teen and the leader. He looked at the tattooed thug, then at the teen. "Come on," he said, dropping the branch and holding a hand out to the teen, "he's out cold and the others have gone running. We'll get you cleaned up inside, yeah?"

The teen looked at him, minty-green eyes narrowed. He was thinner than John originally thought, with high cheekbones and a thin frame. He looked fairly tall, but not overly-lanky. He had raven black, curly hair that fell into his eyes and was slick with sweat and blood, and there was blood on his clothes.

John sighed, hand still held out, "Take the offer or leave it, mate," he said.

The teen stayed silent, then reached out to take John's hand. John's pulled him up so he was standing, and reached an arm around his back when he swayed on the spot.

"Are you alright?" John asked, but the teen just nodded. "Come on, inside."

"Why-" the teen coughed, "-why are you helping me?" he asked.

John looked at him strangely as they limped forward, "Why wouldn't I?" he asked as they entered the center and went to the bathroom.

"No-one usually helps me."

He said it so easily, like it didn't even bother him, that it made John freeze in the doorway. "What?"

The teen shrugged, "I'm not very likeable. Probably has something to do with the fact that I'm a high-functioning sociopath and I can read people like books- but people are too stupid to realise that's why they hate me."

"Too stupid- wait," John said, still standing in the doorway as the other teen went over to the sink and turned on the taps, "what do you mean you can 'read people like books'?"

"I mean exactly that," the teen replied as he washed the blood off his hands and arms, "it's how I knew that dear Paul's father is abusive and his mother ran off ten years ago."

"Yeah, how did you know that?"

"Simple. He had a ring on his right hand. Definitely feminine, but anyone with a braincell would know that he couldn't get a girlfriend, so it has to be a family member. Doesn't look old enough to be a grandmother's, so the next would be a mother. The ring looks around fifteen years old, which was probably when she was given it- maybe as a birthday present- couldn't be, it's too dear for just a regular gift- maybe as a anniversary present- again, couldn't be because you wouldn't get someone a ring as an anniversary gift- so, either a proposal, or someone was trying to buy her affections. Either way, she probably didn't want a proper relationship, but by that time-"

"-she would have been pregnant," John finished.

The teen nodded, "Exactly. Had the baby, kept the ring, didn't want to leave the child, so she stayed with the father. Wasn't happy, left around five years later; this is where it gets tricky. If she stayed for the baby for five years, why would she leave then? Answer is obvious, she ran-"

"-because the father was abusive," John finished again, and the teen eyed him through the mirror.

"Yes," he said slowly in reply. "Anyway, she left her son- our dear friend Paul- with the abusive father. Father's angry his wife left, he's been taking it out on the son for ten years."

"Brilliant," John breathed, eyes wide.

The teen caught his eye, "Really?"

John nodded, "Extraordinary. Quite, extraordinary."

"That's not what people usually say."

"What do people usually say?"

"'Piss off'."

John couldn't help it- he started laughing. Soon the other teen joined in, and they were both bent over in a fit of giggles.

"Oh god," John laughed, wiping his eyes, "seriously, mate, that was brilliant. But wait, how did you know his father's an alcoholic?"

"Shot in the dark," the teen replied smoothly, "good one, though."

John started laughing again, "Too right." There was a comfortable silence, and then John just had to ask; "So who _are _you?"

The teen smiled, "Sherlock," he said, extending a hand, "Sherlock Holmes."

John grasped Sherlock's hand, returning the smile, "John Watson."

"Pleasure to meet you, John Watson."

"Same here." After Sherlock washed as much blood and sweat as he could out of his hair, they exited the bathroom in silence, going out to the front of the centre. John picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder, checking his watch. He was five minutes behind, but, for some reason, John didn't really mind.

"Did you have anything with you?" John asked, "Like a bag or something?"

"No," Sherlock replied, "that's at home. My brother, Mycroft, brought it back for me."

"'Mycroft'?" John echoed, "No offence, but with weird names like 'Sherlock' and 'Mycroft' you're bound to get beaten up sometime."

Sherlock just hummed in reply, looking away. "I ought to go," he said after a moment, "I've got a long walk home."

"Oh?" John looked up at Sherlock, "how far away d'you live?"

"About seven miles north," Sherlock answered smoothly, but John's eyes widened.

"'Seven miles north'?" he repeated, "And you're going to walk seven miles with those injuries?" He gestured to Sherlock's numerous cuts, gashes and forming bruises. He was even limping a little.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock huffed, "and it's not like I haven't walked the seven miles like this before."

"I don't care," John said, "you're not walking- no, _limping _seven miles like that. Come on, my house is just ten minutes up the road, my mum can patch up your injuries and she can give you a lift home."

"No, honestly, John," Sherlock protested, "I'm fi-"

"I'm not having you walk seven miles like that, Sherlock," John dead-panned, "simple as. Now come on, I'm not taking no for an answer."

Sherlock hesitated. He scowled, murmured an "I'm fine," and attempted to walk the opposite way. After a few steps and a lot of limping, he nearly fell, and John rushed over to support him again. He held Sherlock up, eyebrow raised.

Sherlock sighed dramatically, "Fine, if you _insist_."

"You're bloody right I _insist,"_John repeated, mocking Sherlock. The taller teen's lips curled up into a smile.

_Maybe Mycroft is wrong,_ Sherlock thought, _maybe having friends_ isn't _a bad thing._

* * *

_There we go, my attempt at teen!Lock! Hope I did it justice, hope you enjoyed, remember to subscribe, review, favourite, etc._

_Muchlove._


	6. Tripping Up Part 1

_**I don't own Sherlock, or anything you recognise.**_

_This one is written in parts, during the morning I have my very last exam (finally finished, huzzah!). It's based on one of the cutest parts of Sherlock Holmes; A Game of Shadows, where Holmes asks, "Who taught you how to dance?", and Watson replies, "You did!"_

_So, I decided to do a teen!Lock one, again. Based on Sherlock trying to teach John how to dance, and continuing from there.  
_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

_Chapter 6 - Tripping Up (Part 1)_

* * *

When Sherlock had told John that they were going to the school formal, John had laughed. Understandable, right? Of all people, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were not the people you would see attending a black-tie dance, especially not in the dark, gloomy, poorly-lit assembly hall at school.

So John laughed.

"Are you serious?" he asked Sherlock through the giggles. They were sitting in John's bedroom, supposedly studying for their summer exams. "You want _us _to go to that dance? You never do anything like that, why the sudden change?"

Sherlock crossed his arms and scowled, "You know full well why, John. Think about it! A bunch of hormonal teenagers basically _trapped _in an enclosed space, think about how much this is going to help my deductions! I'll literally be able to read people like books!"

"You want me to go to the formal just so you can deduce teens in an enclosed space?" John asked, one eyebrow raised, "If you want to deduce people in an enclosed space, go on the train or a bus. According to my dad, they're absolutely packed in the afternoon." He went back to reading his book.

"_Pleeaaassseeee_, John!" Sherlock moaned, practically begging the smaller teen, "Just for an hour or so! I'll do my deductions and then we can go!"

"You can go, Sherlock," John snapped, "by all means, go, but I'm not. I'm staying right here, and studying for my exams- which, by the way, as much of a bloody genius as you are, you should be, too!"

"Oh what's one night of not studying compared to the sixty we have until the exams! And besides," Sherlock winked, "you know I'll ace them, anyway."

John just mumbled something under his breath, burying his nose deeper into his book.

Sherlock just scowled again, sitting down. He paused for a moment, looking over at John.

_Red cheeks. Embarrassed. About what? Scowling, reluctant to go to the dance. What else? Hmm...  
_

It clicked, after a moment of Sherlock deducing John. Sherlock smirked, then started giggling. John looked up at him sharply, eyes narrowed.

"What?" he asked, "What is it now?"

"John," Sherlock began, clearing his throat, "can you dance?"

John paled, pursing his lips. He looked down at his book, scowling.

"Don't see why that's any of your concern," he muttered, and Sherlock couldn't help it. He laughed.

"Oh God," he chuckled, "is that why you don't want to go to the formal? Because you can't dance?"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"It's not even that hard-"

"-I said shut up, Sherlock-"

"-but it's such an idiotic reason, really-"

"-'idiotic'? Oh, cheers!" John snapped sarcastically, "Cheers for calling me an idiot!"

"No, not _you_, John," Sherlock replied smoothly, "your _reason_. Dancing is simple!"

"Oh, s'pose Sherlock-I'm-so-bloody-brilliant-at-everything-Holmes knows how to dance, then?" John challenged, and Sherlock grinned.

"As a matter of fact, yes, I do."

"Oh, of _course_."

"Look, John," Sherlock began, "my parents were- no, _are_, snobby, rich and expect the best out of Mycroft and I. Hence why I got violin lessons, private tutors, etiquette lessons, and, yes, dancing lessons. I can't change my upbringing no more than you can change yours, no matter how much I want to."

John just hummed, looking down at his book. Sherlock sat on John's bed with his legs folded under him. He put his hands on his knees and gazed at John for a moment.

"Why can't you dance?" he asked after a minute, and John sighed.

"Can you please just let it go, Sherlock? I can't dance, so I'm not going to the dance, simple as."

"So..." Sherlock paused, "You won't go... because you think you can't dance?"

"_Know_," John corrected, "I _know _I can't dance."

Sherlock snorted, "Doubtful." He stood up, "Come on."

"What?" John asked, not looking up.

"Stand up, John."

John glanced up, eyebrow raised again, "Why?"

"I, Sherlock Holmes, am going to teach you, John Watson, how to dance."

The latter started laughing, clutching his sides, "Oh," he sighed, "good one, Sherlock. Funny."

Sherlock scowled, "I wasn't trying to be funny."

John stayed silent for a moment, looking up at Sherlock. "You can't be serious!" he gaped.

"I am. I need you at this dance, otherwise it will just be boring!"

"It's a _school dance_, Sherlock, it'll be boring anyway!"

"While that may be true," Sherlock replied, "it'll be much more fun if you're there."

John started to speak, then stopped himself. "Fine," he sighed, closing his book and standing up, "fine, you can teach me how to dance and I'll go with you to the bloody formal. Happy?"

Sherlock gave John a quirky, one-sided smile, "Very," he said.

They stood about a foot apart. John shifted from foot to foot, not looking at Sherlock's face. The taller of the two sighed and put his hands on John's shoulders, pulling him closer. John stumbled on his feet, tripping into Sherlock. He blushed and mumbled a quick, "Sorry".

"John," Sherlock said, "is it that you _can't _dance, or you _refuse _to?"

"Bit of both, really."

Sherlock sighed, "Look, it's fine, it's only me! You've nothing to worry about. I won't let you fall, I won't berate you, I won't make fun of you if you simply can't do it."

"Yes, you would!" John laughed.

"Alright, maybe I would," Sherlock chuckled, "but not for long! And then, soon, you'll be dancing with all the girls, and when people ask, 'Oh John! Who taught you those amazingly fabulous dance moves!' And you will say...?"

John stayed silent, arms crossed, smirking up at Sherlock.

"Me, John," Sherlock deadpanned, "you'll say it was me."

"But was it you?" John teased, still smirking.

"Well, it _would be_, if you actually _let me _teach you how to dance!" Sherlock huffed, hands still on John's shoulders. They both stayed silent. After a moment, they burst out laughing.

"Alright," John said through his chuckles, "alright, fine, I'll dance. You have music?"

"I think we'll survive without it for this," Sherlock smiled, "don't you?"

"I suppose," John shrugged. "So you'll count the steps?"

"Obviously," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," John muttered under his breath. He hesitantly put his hands on Sherlock's hips, tense.

"Now remember," Sherlock said, "if you keep making _that _face, you won't even get asked to dance!" John chuckled, relaxing a bit. He could feel Sherlock's hip bones, and knew the genius teenager hadn't been eating again.

"Because it's a formal," Sherlock began, "they'll probably be playing classical music, with the occasional casual song- rock or pop or something typical. When it's comes to casual dancing, you don't really need to know much, so we'll focus on classical- specifically waltz, a dance in three four time- or, three-quarter time. I doubt they'd play anything for a cotillion. We can try a two-step and a veleta, and maybe a minuet, but we won't even a_ttempt _a fox-trot, as it would probably be to complex for a typical teenager. Got it?"

John blinked, "Sorry, _what_?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes, "How about we just begin with slow swaying, and I'll guide you through the dances from there?"

"Yeah," John nodded, "yeah, ok. Swaying. I can do that."

They began to sway to the non-existant music. It was slow at first, and a bit awkward for both John and Sherlock. After a moment, John stopped and stepped away, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry," he said, sighing, "I'm sorry, I can't do this."

"What's the problem?" Sherlock crossed his arms, "It's not that difficult!"

"Well it is for me!" John shouted.

"How can it be difficult?" Sherlock scoffed, "It's just-"

"_IT'S NOT THE DANCING I HAVE A PROBLEM WITH, SHERLOCK_," John yelled, hands balled up into fists at his sides.

Sherlock took a step back, eyes narrowed. When John stepped away, arms crossed, yelling, something inside Sherlock snapped. He didn't know what it was, he had never experienced it before, but it was there. Just a little click in the back of his mind, a drop in the pit of his stomach, a skip in his heart-beat. It hurt.

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. "I think," John began. He cleared his throat. "I think maybe you should go,"

"Why shou-" Sherlock began, but John cut him off.

"Sherlock. Don't. Please, just don't."

He didn't want to leave, but to see John - his only friend - so confused, conflicted, hurt and angry...

Sherlock couldn't find any words. No snappy retort, no comical comments or off-hand reply.

So Sherlock stayed silent, and just nodded once. He picked up his books and dumped them back into his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. Head held high, he opened John's door, went downstairs, and left.

The door banged shut behind him, the bang echoing around the house.

John sighed deeply, slumping back onto his bed.

_To be continued._

* * *

_There we go, Part 1 of the "Tripping Up" two-shot. Part 2 will be up soon! Remember to review, subscribe for alerts, favourite, etc..._

_Also, I'm thinking of taking requests (because I'm running out of ideas...) Leave a review with an idea if you have one, and I'll try it out! :)_

_Muchlove._


	7. Tripping Up Part 2

_**Don't own Sherlock, or anything recognisable.**_

_So here it is, "Tripping Up (Part 2)". I decided to change it into a three-shot, so there's another part after this._

_I don't have a lot to say about this, other than you'll see Lestrade, Molly, and Irene as teens!_

_Anyway- enjoy!_

* * *

_Chapter 7 - Tripping Up (Part 2)_

* * *

When Sherlock went into school the next day, he couldn't say he was surprised. Naturally the posters about the formal were still slapped on every available surface, filling the corridors with bright colours and not-so-catchy slogans. Pretty much everyone had someone to go with, everyone had a date, everyone had someone who liked them.

Except for Sherlock.

Well, at least that's what he _thought_. He had never seen so many couples walking the halls of the school, nor had he heard so many groups of girls swooning and gossiping about how their dates had asked them, or so many boys trying to one-up their mates in how hot their date was.

Boring. So bloody boring.

Which is why Sherlock wanted to go with John. John, who was probably the only person in the whole damn school who just barely passed boring.

John was normal. John was a typical teenager. John wasn't rich, but he wasn't poor. He wasn't exceptionally smart, but he wasn't an idiot like everyone else, either. John wasn't different... but he was.

He didn't expect to see John. They fought, the typical teenage thing to do would be ignore each-other for a few days until someone caves and apologises, and then they could go back to the way everything was. Simple. Right?

Wrong. Always wrong. With John, for Sherlock, nothing was ever "simple". How could it be?

_"Is this love?"_ Sherlock thought, as he walked down the corridor towards the assembly hall for lunch. _"The fact that someone could mean so much to me, could affect me so much, could make me see things differently?"_It was too much for Sherlock. Too many conflicting emotions, too many contradicting thoughts.

He spun on his heel and walked back the other way, his hunger dissipated. His mind was running through too many thoughts to focus on food.

* * *

A week passed, and it was the night of the formal.

John and Sherlock still hadn't talked, and both teens were getting agitated.

Sherlock was at home, dressed in a simple, black tux and white shirt. His mother forced him into a bow-tie, simply because, "It's more formal, dear, and you look absolutely _darling _when you're wearing it! Open collar is too casual for a Holmes!"

The formal was supposed to start at around seven, but, knowing teenagers, most probably wouldn't arrive until around eight or nine. Sherlock arrived at nine, and noticed that the boys were dressed in similar attire, but looked uncomfortable (either forced into their suits by their parents or their dates). The girls were dressed in elegant dresses, some with their hair pinned up, some with their hair down. The colour of their dresses matched their dates' neck-ties and bow-ties.

He slipped into the hall unnoticed, hiding in the dark spots around the edge of the hall. Decorations littered the hall, banners hung from the rafters, balloons floated around the room, and the lights were dim. A few spotlights were shining at the center of the hall, occasionally changing colour from white, to blue, to red, to green, and back again. There was slow music playing, and a few couples were dancing slowly in the center of the hall.

Sherlock scowled, and went to get a drink.

* * *

John scowled, and went to get a drink. His head hurt from studying, and he was in a bad mood because he still hadn't talked to Sherlock.

He checked the time when he reached the kitchen, realising it was ten. Sherlock was either at the formal, or at home brooding.

John sighed and took a glass from the press. He got some water from the tap and sat down, rubbing his eyes. He wanted to go to the formal, and he knew how to dance. He always knew. He took lessons with Harry when she started drinking, trying to get her out of it by giving her a new hobby.

Just the thought of going with Sherlock to a dance...

It made his heart race, his stomach flutter, and his mind go blank.

John knew what that meant, but he didn't want to think about it. After all, it was _Sherlock_. You couldn't just think of _Sherlock-bloody-Holmes _like that. He was a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath!

Was that what was stopping John? The thought that, if he told Sherlock how he felt, there would be no doubt that Sherlock would shoot him down? Deep down, John knew that there was slim, if no, chance that Sherlock could even possibly reciprocate his feelings.

John stood up, sighing again, and began to walk back to his room to resume studying. As he walked into his room, he closed the door behind him and turned towards his desk. But something caught his eye.

His own tux, a sort of off-black with a matching neck-tie, was hung on the back of the door. There was a note pinned to the sleeve, and John walked over slowly to read it.

_Sherlock's brother Mycroft left this for you, just in case you change your mind,  
-Mum xx_

John sighed, scowling. Of course Mycroft would send him a suit. He was trying to guilt John into going to that bloody formal.

Why should he go? Was there even a logical reason for John to go to that formal?

_Sherlock would be there._

John yelled out in frustration, kicking the side of his bed. He slumped onto his bed, sitting down heavily.

Sherlock _would _be there. He would never give up an opportunity to test his deducing skills.

And maybe John could actually tell Sherlock how he felt. What's the worst that could happen? A rejection? Sherlock wouldn't care, John's feelings would disperse, and things could just go back to the way they were.

Nodding once, John stood up and grabbed the tux from the back of his door.

He hoped he made it on time.

* * *

Sherlock was right. Without John, the formal was so unbearably _boring_. The tension at the start had slowly disappeared, so now it was a calm, relaxed atmosphere. Couples danced, friends danced, people talked on the sidelines, people cheered on the second band that came out, who played a mix of both classical and modern music.

But Sherlock was just _bored_.

That was, until _she _showed up.

"Here alone, Sherlock?" her voice came from behind him, and he turned around from deducing a couple. He scowled, and she smirked.

She was wearing a black dress that hugged her waist, but flowed out around her hips and to the floor. Her lips were cherry red, and her dark hazel eyes were sparkling. Her long, dark hair was twisted into an intricate hair style, and she wore black gloves. Her silver jewellery glittered from the lights.

"Irene," he greeted simply, raising an eyebrow, "I thought school formals were below you, of all people."

"You'd be surprised at how many of the boys asked me, Sherlock," Irene Adler smiled, "and I was surprised that you weren't among them. Did that fling mean nothing to you?"

"Did it mean anything to you?" he retorted, not bothering to be polite.

"Of course not," she scoffed, "but when people heard I was the great Sherlock Holmes' first, my reputation sky-rocketed. You did wonders for my ego, darling."

"Everything does wonders for your ego," he snapped, glaring.

Irene tutted, "Not so calm without your little friend, now, are we? Where is dear John?"

"He couldn't attend," Sherlock replied, looking away, "he had somewhere else to be."

"Aw," she cooed, "did he turn you down?" She sighed, "I told you, Sherlock, Jim was right, no-one would want a self-proclaimed sociopath."

"Self-proclaimed _high-functioning _sociopath, Irene," he replied curtly, "get it right before you try to insult me."

"Hardly an insult if it's self-proclaimed, now is it?" She checked her shining silver wrist-watch. "Oh dear," she sighed, "must be off, I was supposed to meet up with Jim. Ciao, Sherlock," she kissed his cheek and he grimaced. She smirked as she walked away.

* * *

John arrived at the formal at around quarter to eleven, dressed in his suit. He climbed out of his dad's car quickly and waved as his dad drove away. He went to run into the hall when he was stopped.

"John!" Greg Lestrade greeted, smiling, "Thought you weren't coming?" Greg was dressed in a grey quit with a dark blue tie and a white shirt. He was a couple of years above John in school, but they were both on the rugby team. Molly Hopper was clutching his arm, smiling softly. She was wearing a long, dark green dress. Her hair was pinned back, and she was wearing dark make-up.

"Changed my mind," John replied quickly, looking over Greg's shoulder towards the door, "nice to see you both. Didn't know you came together."

They both smiled, looking at each other. Molly blushed, "Oh, we didn't," she replied, looking at John, "but my date left early, and so did Greg's. We decided we may as well just hang out for the rest of the night."

John nodded, shuffling from foot-to-foot, "That's lovely, but listen, is Sherlock in there?"

Greg paused for a moment, frowning. "Oh yeah!" he exclaimed, "I saw him with Irene before we left."

John froze, looking at Greg, "Irene Adler?"

Greg nodded, then narrowed his eyes, "Yeah, Irene Adler. Why?"

John paused for a moment, then shook his head, "Nothing, nothing. Are Anderson and Donovan in there?"

"They left earlier, at around quarter past. Anderson's girlfriend went off with another bloke, and Donovan went off with Anderson. I don't really know what's going on between the two of them, it's like some confusing, twisted love triangle. But anyway, I think Sherlock's still in there."

"Alright, cheers, Greg. Have a nice night," he clapped Greg on the shoulder and smiled at Molly, giving her a quick hug.

"'Night, John," she said as he hugged her, "and make sure you tell Sherlock."

John pulled back and blinked, but Molly just smiled. The couple walked past and John smiled softly at them.

After a moment, he snapped back to reality, and went into the hall.

* * *

"Sherlock!" Irene called again, and Sherlock sighed. It was the second time she bothered him that night, couldn't she just leave him alone?

"What do you want now, Irene?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. She smirked, moving closer to him.

"I was wondering," she began, running a hand slowly up his arm, "if you would like to dance?"

"No," he said simply, "I'm not interested. Go ask your latest toy," he stepped closer, "or better yet, why don't you just stop manipulating the male population of the school and run off with _dear_Jim."

"Are you jealous, Sherlock?" Irene asked, giving him a shark-like grin.

"Hardly," he scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"So why won't you dance with me? I mean," she looked up into his bright eyes, "it's not like you've got anything to lose."

Sherlock hesitated, looking around. There were couples on the dance floor, anyway, and a slow song was playing. He looked down at Irene, who was still smirking up at him. He sighed.

"Fine, _one _dance. Then I'm leaving."

"I'll take it," she grasped his hand a dragged him to the center of the hall. He places his hands on her hips and she placed hers on his shoulders. They began to sway slowly to the music.

* * *

John's eyes widened, and his heart stopped.

Sherlock and Irene were dancing in the middle of the hall, slowly swaying and moving in circles.

They stood apart from the other couples. He was tall, dark, and, admittedly, handsome. Irene was a head smaller than him, dressed in a long, black dressed that showed off quite a bit of cleavage and her back. They looked like everything any couple would want to be, dark, sexy, mysterious.

John's breath caught in his throat.

He knew about Sherlock and Irene. A year beforehand, they had gotten together for less than a week. As far as John was concerned, Irene had used Sherlock for her own benefit, Sherlock got too wrapped up in the relationship, and in the end got his heart broken. John was there to pick up the pieces, John was there to make sure Sherlock didn't slip back into taking drugs, John was _there_, when no-one else was.

But now they were dancing, together, out-shining everyone else in the hall.

They spun around so Sherlock's back was to John. Irene looked over Sherlock's shoulder and caught John's eye. She smirked at him, raising an eyebrow as if to say, "_You thought you could win him over?_"

She said something to Sherlock, who spun around quickly towards John. His eyes widened when he saw him, but John didn't do anything. Didn't smile, didn't wave, didn't storm over and drag Sherlock out of there like he wanted to.

John simply turned around, and walked out.

* * *

_Aw, sad John is sad! Trust me, though, there's a happy ending coming up in the next part!_

_Also, I've been thinking, maybe I should start taking requests? I'm running out of ideas, and I have this policy where I have to have at least TWO chapters finished before I upload another one. So if you have an idea you want me to do simply drop a review with the details and I'll get them done as soon as possible! :)_

_Muchlove._


	8. Tripping Up Part 3

_**I don't own Sherlock, or anything recognisable.**_

_So, here's Part 3 of "Tripping Up", and I promise no more sad Johnlock! You guys should like this ending! I'm quite happy with these three, I hope you guys liked them, too._

_I got really annoyed when writing this, because I described this epically awesome kiss scene that I was extremely proud of, and then my laptop had to go and die before I could save it :( So here's the new kiss scene, that I'm a bit indifferent about... And Sherlock may seem a little bit OOC in this one, but I'm just putting that down to the fact that he's sixteen, he's a guy, and he's in love, so even a high-functioning sociopath like Sherlock Holmes would be a little crazy and weird ;) I know I ended this quickly, but I had to get it done!_

_ALSO, there's an important author's note at the end of this chapter to do with updating over the next few weeks, so be sure to check it out!_

* * *

"John," Sherlock breathed, when he saw the smaller teen at the door. John froze, eyes wide, then turned and left.

Sherlock turned to Irene, who was still smirking. "What did you do?" he asked, but she just smiled.

He shoved Irene's hands off of his shoulders and stormed away from her, towards the door, following John out.

The sky was clear of clouds, but bright stars broke the dark blue. It was cold enough to wear a jacket, but warm enough to survive without one.

John was walking up the road, hands shoved deeply into his pockets. Sherlock could tell from his posture that something was wrong. Very wrong.

"John!" he called out, running to catch up.

John looked back, scowled, and picked up his pace, walking further from Sherlock.

The latter sped up, eventually catching up to John.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John asked, still walking, not looking at Sherlock. Sherlock frowned.

"I didn't know you'd show up," he explained, "considering you said you didn't want to go. What changed your mind?"

"Like it matters, now, anyway," John huffed, "why don't you just go back, and spend the rest of the night with _Irene_."

He spat her name out like a curse, and Sherlock stopped.

"What has Irene got to do with anything?" he asked, frowning, "So we danced, it's not a big deal."

John skidded to a stop and spun around about seven feet away from Sherlock.

"'Not a big deal'?" he echoed, gaping at Sherlock, "Not a big- it's a _huge _deal! You know what she did to you last year, and now you're just going right back to her!"

"I was bored!" Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his hands up, "I was bored because you weren't here! Why wouldn't you come anyway?" He stepped closer to John, "If I recall," he said, "it wasn't the dancing you had a problem with, so there had to be another reason!"

"Well," John snarled, moving closer to Sherlock, "_you_ figure it out! _You're_ the genius, _you_ can read people like they're books- do me! Figure it out! Because, believe it or not, _IT'S ACTUALLY PRETTY OBVIOUS!_"

"_NOT TO ME!_" Sherlock yelled back, moving so there was only a foot between the two.

"_WELL, LET ME MAKE IT CLEAR FOR YOU, THEN!_"

And with that, John reached up, grabbed the collar of Sherlock's shirt, and pulled him down for a kiss.

Unlike the books and stories Sherlock had read, there was no fireworks, nor did the world stop. But there was a spark, something that clicked deep in Sherlock's mind that made him want more. He froze for a moment, eyes wide, staring down at John.

That was it. John released Sherlock's collar and stepped back, breaking the kiss.

"There," he said after a moment of silence. Sherlock blinked. "You wanted your bloody reason," John continued, "and you got it. I like you, OK? But it's not like that matters." He shook his head and looked down at his feet, "As you've told me, and others, over and over again; you're a high-functioning sociopath. No matter how I feel, you don't want a relationship." He laughed nervously, looking up at Sherlock, "I suppose I've Irene to thank for that, right?"

John took another step away, turning his body slightly, "Knowing you, you'll probably just delete this, right? Forget about it completely?" He took a deep breath, "I guess that's for the best, really. I can just act like nothing happened, it's fine."

He went to walk away, when Sherlock reached forward and grabbed his sleeve. John looked away, not meeting Sherlock's eye.

"John," Sherlock sighed, trying not to smile, "I knew I was right when I said everyone's an idiot."

John looked up at Sherlock and scowled, "So nice to know you think I'm an idiot for liking you!" he scoffed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, "So nice to _finally _tell you how I feel and have you just spit it back in- mmf!"

Sherlock had grabbed John's suit jacket and pulled him close, kissing him again. John was shocked, but after a moment he closed his eyes and placed his hands gently on Sherlock's waist. Sherlock held John close, so there was barely any space between the two teens. There was definitely a spark the second time, and they both felt it. It made their hearts beat faster, their stomachs flip, and their minds go blank.

After a few minutes they broke apart, gasping for air. Eyes still closed, Sherlock moved so their foreheads were touching.

They opened their eyes at the same time, instantly looking at each-other. Sherlock smirked.

"You're an idiot," he explained, "because I've been feeling the exact same way, and I'm surprised you didn't notice."

"Oh," John breathed, eyes wide, "Really?"

Sherlock just hummed in response, still smirking.

"So..." John began, "So what does this mean for us?"

"Well," Sherlock began, "as Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade, Stanford, and numerous others have so happily pointed out, we're _already_ pretty much a couple. I think the only real difference would be _this_," he gestured to the air between them, and John understood. He nodded.

"I can live with that," he said, smiling up at Sherlock.

* * *

_Told you guys I'd give you a happy ending! (I actually struggles so much to finish with this, and I have written around six new chapters already, waiting to be posted, but I couldn't because I still had to finish this one! As much as I love writing, this was a nightmare!)_

_Now down to business. I'm going away for a week on the 2nd of July, and won't have any internet access. However, I'm taking my laptop with me, so I'll be able to write up a few chapters while I'm gone. I will be returning for another week, so I'll be updating a bit and taking requests and responding to some reviews, and then I'll be gone for another FOUR WEEKS. So, I'll be gonna for a month in a couple of weeks. Good news is I'll have my laptop with me, so I'll be able to get loads of chapters and requests written up!_

_So that's all for now, hope you enjoyed! :D_

_(PS: I just realised this is the first time I've had John and Sherlock kiss since this fic started O.o YAY JOHNLOCK KISSES! :3)_


	9. Tired

_**Don't own Sherlock, or anything recognisable.**_

_Angsty established Johnlock here! But I'll make up for it with with some fluff soon!_

_This one's short, but I hope you enjoy anyway :)_

* * *

_Chapter 9 - Tired_

* * *

"No," John sighed, rubbing his eyes. He was on the phone to Sherlock, because the younger man was away on a case, and John was stuck at the clinic. Sherlock called between patients, and, somehow, they managed to get into a fight.

Another fight.

And John was so very tired.

"No," John said again, "it's not the same, Sherlock. You can't keep doing this! You can't be all lovely and nice to me one day, then block me out the next- I don't care if you have a case or not!"

Sherlock stayed silent as John continued.

"I get it," John mumbled into the phone, "I do. It's who you are, you can't help be interested when a good murder is involved, but you have to realise that I'm your partner, in more ways than one, and you have to understand that I'm in on this too. I know being in a relationship isn't really your expertise, but I'm here, and I'll be as kind and loving and supportive as possible. Please, just don't be like this. Don't pretend you don't know what this is doing to me."

"John," Sherlock said quietly, his voice crackling through the phone, "trust me, you wouldn't understand. It's not that I don't care, it's that I can't! I'm a high-functioning sociopath, to go from that, to having a best friend and flatmate, to having a romantic partner..." Sherlock sighed.

"Fine, then," John huffed, "if it's too much, maybe this wasn't a good idea. If you don't think you can actually try make whetever the hell this is work, then I really don't see the point in bothering. I've got to go, I've got a patient. Bye, Sherlock."

John hung up, sighing again and groaning into his hands.

He didn't have a patient.

And he was just so very tired.

* * *

_Told you, short and angsty!_

_Hope you liked it, review, request, subscribe, favourite, etc..._

_Muchlove._


	10. Perseverance

_**Don't own Sherlock, or anything recognisable.**_

_So I was watching TRB with my friend the other day, and I just realised I'm still full of Reichenbach angst- so here's a little one for you!_

_I'm awfully angsty lately, aren't I? Meh, I'll write some fluff to make up for it ;)_

* * *

_Chapter 10 - Perseverance._

* * *

"Sher... Sherlock... No, don't... Sherlock! SHERLOCK!

John gasped, waking up from the nightmare.

Sherlock on the roof, Sherlock falling, blood, so much blood...

He hated it. John hated the fact that he was still getting nightmares, even after a year of Sherlock being... gone.

He sighed again, rubbing his eyes. He was a soldier. He had to keep marching on, to persevere. He'd get over it, in the end. He had to.

But how could a person just "get over" someone like Sherlock Holmes? Someone so brilliant and amazing and talented and wonderful and-

No. John couldn't keep losing himself to a dead man.

He checked the time. 4:30am. No point going back to sleep, he had to get up for work in a couple of hours, anyway. He sat up, looking around the slightly dark room. Sun was breaking through the gap in the curtains, casting a strip of light across the room and over to the door.

John rubbed his face again, and realised he had started crying. He had almost made it a week without crying, and now the tears were streaming down his red cheeks. He held his face in his hands, took a deep breath, and sat still for a few minutes.

Little did John know that in the far corner of the room, hidden away above the wardrobe, was a small camera. It captured John crying into his hand, sobs racking his thin frame. Somewhere in London, Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes were watching the live stream of John crying.

Sherlock sighed, turning away from the screen. "Turn it off," he mumbled, voice hoarse. "Turn it off, I can't watch it anymore."

Mycroft obliged, shutting off the video and turning towards his younger brother.

"Why can't I go to him, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, looking out the window. "Why can't this all be over, why can't I go back?"

Mycroft studied Sherlock from behind.

"Because you have a job to do," he answered after a minute, "and you can go back to 221b when it's finished. Until then, you have to fight this. Moriarty will hurt you in anyway possible, if you go home now, he'll know you're alive and thus go after our dear doctor. You can't go. You must persevere, Sherlock."

* * *

_IT'S ANGSTY AND SHORT, WHAT IS THIS MADNESS!_

_I'll do a long fluffy piece for you soon :3_

On another note, this is my tenth chapter! Yay!  


_Muchlove :3_


	11. Like Father Like Daughter

_**Don't own Sherlock, or anything recognisable. Though I do own Claudia, Artemis/Artie, and Laura.**_

_So I got a lovely review requesting some parent!Lock, and I decided to try it out!_

_I've never tried parent!Lock out before, and there aren't that many future!fics about John and Sherlock, so I was a bit nervous. After a while, however, and once the kids came in, it was so much fun to write! Anyway, I hope you guys like it!_

_Also, you may have noticed I've got a different pen name- I was "Holly Swift", but now I'm "BlaineRedVientistWatson". And there is a really confusing story behind that name, that I'm not gonna go into right now xD  
_

_Dedicated to Sabrina Sparrow, my awesome sis-star, and my first request._

* * *

_Chapter 11 - Like Father Like Daughter._

* * *

"No, Lestrade, as usual your team has gotten it wrong, again! Look at her clothes, _really look at them! _How could she have been in Dublin if her clothes are still wet, it doesn't add up!"

John closed his eyes and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. They had arrived at the crime-scene an hour earlier, at Lestrade's request, and they were still there. From what John could tell, the victim (who was lying sprawled on the ground, next to a bottle of red wine, supposedly after taking a poison), had arrived from Dublin after visiting a secret lover she was having an affair with. She arrived home safely, and had all the necessary paperwork to prove she was on the flight, but appeared a few hours later, dead on her own doorstep. Something happened during the few hours between getting off the flight and arriving home, something that led to the woman's death, and that's what they were trying to solve.

"Her clothes aren't wet!" Anderson protested from beside Donovan at the opposite side of the tape, frowning at Sherlock. The consulting detective rolled his eyes.

"As usual, Anderson, you _see_ but you don't _observe_. For God's sake, her tights, around her feet and ankles, are wet! There hasn't been any rain in Dublin since last week, surprisingly, so why are her feet wet! Answer, she _hasn't _been in Dublin, not for a while, which means she never left!"

"Oh, come on, how could you possibly- you know what," Anderson huffed, "forget it." And with that, he walked off.

"Alright," John said, turning to stand next to Sherlock, "go through it from the start, _slowly_. From what you've deduced, what happened?"

Sherlock scowled, and Lestrade sighed, "Please, Sherlock-" he began, but was cut off.

"_Papa!_" someone yelled from across the road. John and Sherlock whirled around to see a woman standing there with two children, a boy and a girl. The girl, the one who yelled, looked around eight. She had jet-black curly hair, pinned out of her face with a blue clip. Her eyes with a light blue, and she was wearing a green shirt with a black skirt. The boy, who was around two years older, had sandy blonde, short hair, and silver-blue eyes. He was wearing a blue button-up shirt, with black trousers. They both grinned at the same time.

"Papa!" the little girl yelled again, and tugged on the woman's hand, rushing across the road.

"Laura," John began, looking at the woman, "I told you you can't bring them to a crime scene! They're too young!" The woman, Laura, frowned.

"But-" she began, and Sherlock cut her off.

"I said she could bring them down," he explained, looking over at John. The little girl ran over to Sherlock, still grinning.

"Papa!" she said again, lifting her arms when she reached him. He picked her up easily, swinging her around.

"Claudia," he said when he stopped spinning, "what have I told you about shouting when we're outside."

"Not to do it because Uncle Mike can see us in his cameras," she recited, scowling," and he might tell Nanna Holmes, and she hates it when we shout."

"Exactly."

"I'm sorry, John," Laura began quietly when she reached him, "but they've been begging to see you two since yesterday, and I tried to distract them, and I told them that you'd be home later, but they wouldn't listen, so I called Sherlock and he said it was okay to bring them down, because they _really _miss you, and-"

"Laura," John cut her off, holding a hand up, "I don't mind, it's fine. I didn't know Sherlock said you can bring them down, that's why I was angry."

"Oh," she blinked, "okay, then."

"Artie," John grinned, kneeling down and holding his arms out. The boy ran forward into John's arms, giving him a hug.

"Dad," he looked up at John, "how come we can't come to any crime-scenes with you and Papa?"

"Because," John answered simply, and that was that.

"John," Lestrade raised an eyebrow, "why didn't you tell me they'd be down today?"

"Uncle Greg!" the two kids chorused. Claudia scrambled out of Sherlock arms and ran over to Lestrade, giggling as he lifted her up. Artemis slipped out of his father's embrace and followed his sister over to Lestrade, hugging him around the waist.

"Wait a second," Donovan began, frowning, "who are they, and what's going on?" Anderson ducked under the tape and walked over to stand beside Donovan. He crossed his arms.

Lestrade put Claudia back on the ground, and she walked over to Donovan and Anderson. Claudia imitated Donovan's frown, and stayed silent for a moment. John bit his lip, glancing at Sherlock, who met his eye. They knew what was coming. Sherlock grinned.

"Can I help name it?" Claudia asked Anderson, and Donovan frowned again.

"Name what?" she asked, looking down at the little girl.

"Your baby," Claudia answered simply, and Donovan's jaw dropped. Anderson's eyes widened.

"W-what-" Donovan started, but Claudia continued talking.

"You've got a small bump on your belly," she pointed at Donovan's stomach, "made more obvious by your jumper, and you keep rubbing your belly and tugging at your jumper when you think no-one's watching. And the fact that you," she looked at Anderson," keep following her around, and have taken up a stance that helps you believe you look threatening, which you also hope will make her believe you're good at protecting her, means you're the father. Congratulations."

Anderson's jaw dropped, and Donovan held a hand up to her mouth in shock.

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose again. He looked over at Sherlock.

"She's obviously yours, anyway," he scowled, and Sherlock grinned.

"Claudia," John called out, and the little girl ran over to him. He picked her up, "How many times have I told you," he scolded, "you don't just deduce people on the spot! It's rude!"

"Sorry, Dad," she pouted, looking down at the ground.

"Alright," John said, looking at Laura, "you can take the rest of the day off, we'll bring them home."

"Are you sure?" she asked, "Because I know you're in the middle of a case, and-"

"Laura," he said again, and she stopped, "honestly, it's fine. Take the day off."

Laura nodded, then smiled at John, "Thank you," she said, "Bye Claudia, bye Artie!"

"Bye Laura," they called at the same time, and Laura began walking down the road.

"Sherlock," John began, and Sherlock looked up, "you can finish up here without me, right?"

"I'll only be a few more minutes," Sherlock replied. He turned to Lestrade, "Can I e-mail you the deductions later?"

Lestrade nodded, smiling, "Sure. Go home. We can finish up here."

"Cheers," John said, and he turned to Claudia and Artie, "come on, then, we're going home."

"Aw, but dad!" Artie protested, frowning, "I wanna help Papa with the case!"

"And you can easily help _at home_, can't you?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow at his son. Artie crossed his arms, sulking.

Lestrade smirked at the four as Sherlock went to the curb to call for a taxi.

Anderson and Donovan were still standing in shock.

* * *

_So, I wanna talk about Claudia and Artie for a bit._

_Claudia is John and Sherlock's daughter. She's got the mind of Sherlock, so she's brilliant at deducing things, but she's also like John in the way that she wants to help everyone in whatever way possible, which is why she offered to help name Donovan's baby. She's easily excitable, so when she can deduce someone it all just comes out, she can't help that. She's got Sherlock's hair, but John's eyes, and she's short like John, too. She wants to be a pirate._

_Artemis, or "Artie", is the opposite of his sister. He's quiet, and doesn't say much, but he's extremely curious, so when he_ does _talk, it's usually just asking a question. He loves reading and doing puzzles, and exploring. He looks like John, but he has Sherlock's eyes. He wants to be a detective when he grows up._

_For those of you wondering, Molly was the surrogate mother, yes, the kids _do _call Mycroft "Uncle Mike", and they also consider Lestrade their uncle._

_Anymore questions about them, you can ask in a review, and I'll be happy to answer! :)_

_Hope you guys liked it, muchlove!_


	12. We're Different

_**Don't own Sherlock, or anything recognisable!**_

_Turns out I'm not going away until the 7th (and I'm only going either one or two nights), so you still have me for another few days!_

_Not much to this one, really. Enjoy!_

* * *

_Chapter 11 - We're Different._

* * *

"Doesn't it bother you?"

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, raising an eyebrow at John's question. The shorter man was sitting in the opposite armchair, looking at Sherlock over a cup of steaming Earl Grey.

"Doesn't what bother me?" Sherlock asked, leaning back slightly in his seat.

"Those cases with the couples," John explained, "jealous couples, couples that fight, people that murder their partners, people that cheat..." He trailed off, looking at Sherlock shyly.

"Why would that bother _me_?" Sherlock questioned, "It makes the case more interesting. Well, interesting to some level. Some people take sentiment too far, and they just make things both predictable and exceedingly boring."

"Boring," John echoed.

"Boring," Sherlock confirmed, "and again, why would it bother me?"

John shrugged, "Just wondering, I guess. If you'd ever get worried that something like that would happen to us. That I'd get jealous if Ire- I mean, The Woman, or Molly would kill me off because she's probably still got that crush on you, or Donovan would kill us both off and frame Anderson for whatever obscure reason, or- mff."

Sherlock silenced his blogger with a kiss.

"You're adorable when you ramble," he grinned, "And no, by the way, it doesn't bother me."

John's brow furrowed, "Why not?"

"They're all too stupid," Sherlock snorted, "we'd catch on to their plan right away and foil them instantaneously."

John snorted into his mug, chuckling.

* * *

_IT'S SO DAMN SHORT._

_I apologise. My writing muse has kind of... wandered off. I'm taking all these short ones from a huge long one-shot I was working on for a couple of months, but couldn't actually finish. I just decided to give you guys little snippets, instead._

_Review, request, subscribe, favourite, etc :)_

_Muchlove._


	13. Dancing

_**Don't own Sherlock, or anything recognisable.**_

_Lestrade notices some differences in how John and Sherlock are around each other. AND AN IMPORTANT AN AT THE BOTTOM, BE SURE TO CHECK IT OUT!_

_Hope you enjoy :)_

* * *

_Chapter 12 - Dancing._

* * *

Lestrade noticed it. The subtle change in how Sherlock and John were acting around each other. Before then, it was Sherlock going solo and John trying his best to follow up. That's what everyone knew it as, and what Donovan, Anderson, even Moriarty, teased John about. To them, he was Sherlock's pet, there was no connection.

But that changed. And Lestrade noticed it.

It was like they were dancing, they worked _together_. It wasn't Sherlock followed by John, it was John-and-Sherlock, flowing together in a never-ending dance. They moved together, worked together, lived together, breathed together.

Lestrade didn't know what to think.

So he mentioned it to John.

"You seem different," he said, when he walked up to the ex-army-doctor at a crime scene.

"Different, how?" John asked, not looking up from the dead body and the medical notes he was taking. Sherlock was prancing around the scene, shooting off comments about what happened and how the neighbour's pet cat was involved.

"Well, I was hoping you could tell me," Lestrade said, "because you just seem-"

"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled, running over and grasping John's forearm. John just smiled and looked up at the taller man.

"Yes, Sherlock?" he asked.

"John, it was the neighbours daughter! Oh, how did we not see this before- the cat, John!"

John grinned, "Okay, could you please explain for those of us who don't have minds that works at a hundred miles an hour?"

Sherlock grinned, "Gladly."

Lestrade had to blink. He'd never seen Sherlock actually grin like that, without it being forced. It was warm and kind and happy and most definitely not Sherlock. The consulting detective was speaking at a rapid pace, and he kept looking at John every couple of minutes to make sure the smaller man was still following, and taking notes.

"...and when she saw the cat, she knew it was her father's, and she couldn't live with the guilt, so she got rid of Luke! Oh it's brilliant!"

Sherlock spun in a circle, coat whipping around his legs. John laughed, "How did you- no, I won't even- amazing as usual, love, just amazing." He went back to the notes, glancing up at Sherlock and grinning at the adorable puppy-dog face Sherlock had on.

Wait... Did John just call Sherlock "love"?

Oh.

_Ohh._

Well. They hid that well.

* * *

_YAY FOR UPDATES._

_This, again, is an extract from the long one-shot I was going to post but couldn't finish. I think I actually prefer posting it in little snippets, as it makes it less messy._

_So I wanted to talk to you guys about a few things._

_1) I noticed that there aren't that many people reviewing anymore, and I'm just kind of wondering what's up? I'm not begging for reviews (far from it), but I'd really love to hear what you guys think of the chapters, because if you don't review, I won't know what you guys like to read about, and I could end up writing a load of chapters that no-one'd be interested. Even if it's just a small one saying, "Oh, this is good, I like that idea," or, "I don't really imagine John and Sherlock acting like that, to be honest, maybe you could try something else?". I accept constructive criticism (and YES, there's a difference between flames and constructive criticism!), and it's always good to know what you guys think! So please, it'd only take a second to do, and it'll help make this story better and more interesting for you guys._

_2) Another thing is requests. I'm a writer, and I love to try new things, so PLEASE send in requests! I've only had ONE so far, which I've done and posted already (check out chapter 11 - Like Father Like Daughter for those of you who haven't read it), and it was something that I've never tried before and I ended up loving it! So please, if you have an idea, a song you want me to try make a song-fic about, a word-prompt, a scene you want to take place, ANYTHING, please drop a review and let me know, because I'd love to try write something FOR you, instead of just my own ramblings._

_3) I'm pretty sure you guys already know I'm going away on the 13th for four weeks (I mentioned it briefly at the end of chapter 8), so I won't be updating during that. BUT, I will be bringing my laptop with me, so if you guys have any requests or ideas be sure to send me them BEFORE FRIDAY, so I can get them done while I'm away and have loads of chapters ready for when I come back._

_I think that's pretty much it. I will be working on the full "Sign" story while I'm away (remember you wanted me to continue chapter 3 as a full story? Well it's happening!), so be sure to keep an eye out for that in a couple of months- remember to subscribe for author alerts so you'll be the first to know when it's posted on the site! Any ideas you have for the story, a certain scene you want to take place or just anything you'd like to include (maybe an OC or a cameo, or if you have any info that you think would help the story along), be sure to send me a PM and I'll try get back to you as soon as I can!_

_Anyway, that's it from me for now, be sure to review, subscribe, favourite and remember to send in your requests BEFORE Friday. I'll see you guys in four weeks! :)_

Muchlove!  



	14. Stop

_**Don't own Sherlock, or anything recognisable.**_

_Managed to get one last chapter up before I go away :3_

_I'm not sure whether you'd count this as angst or fluff... anguff? Flangst?_

_I like flangst._

_BUT ANYWAY. It's short, again, and I apologise, again, but it's the last snippet from that long one-shot._

_Erm, hope you like it!_

* * *

_Chapter 13 - Stop._

* * *

"Stop."

"What?"

"Just stop," John said. "What are we doing? Fighting? Again?" He sighed, rubbing his eyes, "I can't even remember what we were bloody fighting about."

"It was-" Sherlock paused. His eyes widened, "Neither do I."

"And you remember pretty much everything," John quipped, "so why are we still going at it?"

"I have no idea."

They both stayed silent.

"I'm sorry, anyway," John said, looking up at Sherlock, "for whatever the hell happened here."

"As am I," Sherlock replied.

John stepped closer to the taller man, "We're not perfect," he said, "far from it. But we can make this work, yeah?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, and John continued.

"I mean," he said, "I love you. So I want this to work. Or," he shrugged, "I want to try, at least. I know we haven't had the best start, but we can still bloody well try. Right?"  
_  
_Sherlock didn't say anything for a minute, Then, wordlessly, he tugged the army doctor into a hug.

"We can do this."

* * *

_God, I really need to do a longer chapter. I'll have one ready for when I get back, promise!_

_In the meantime, WOW. Thanks to all who reviewed the last chapter, even the anons, you guys made my day :) I'll definitely be doing those requests while I'm away, some of them were really interesting! For those of you who had multiple requests, I'll be putting them all in one chapter (for example, if someone sent in three requests, they will all be in the one chapter). It just makes things a lot easier for me :)_

_This is the last you'll hear from me for four weeks, so if anyone has any more requests send them in BY TOMORROW, so I can copy them down and get them done for when I get back ;)_

_Muchlove :3_


	15. Requests Part 1

_**Don't own Sherlock, or anything recognisable!**_

_**So I'm back! My five weeks were lovely (yes, five, I decided to add a week :D), I had a wonderful time away, and a wonderful time doing all those requests ;)**_

_**This whole chapter is dedicated to 666Neme666, who gave me three different requests (which are listed at the start of each section).**_

_**So here you go, I apologise if the kiss is a bit weird, I'm always a bit awkward when writing kiss scenes xD ****Anyway, hope you enjoy!**_

_**Also, rated T for a little bit of language!**_

* * *

_Chapter 15 - Requests (Part 1- 666Neme666)_

* * *

_1 - What Could Have Happened._

_"A first-kiss after John saves Sherlock's life again. (Do you remember the first episode of the BBC series, when at the end Sherlock goes to John, when he realizes he shot the man? I was like "KissKissKiss..." and I'm sure I was not the only one.) :P"_

* * *

"You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock. They had just finished the case, which ended in John shooting the cabbie, in order to save Sherlock's life. _Shooting a cabbie and I've only known Sherlock for a couple of days?_ John thought, _I'm going mental._

"Of course I wasn't," Sherlock retorted, scoffing, "Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

"No you didn't!" John exclaimed, "That's how you get your kicks, isn't it?" he asked, "You risk your life to prove you're clever!" It was more of a statement than a question.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking away, "Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot," John answered simply, and they began walking away from the scene.

Sherlock went to say something else, but John cut him off, "Don't be so offended," he smirked, "pretty much everyone is."

Sherlock chuckled under his breath, still looking away. It was quiet for a moment.

He turned to John, smiling lightly. It wasn't the arrogant smirk he gave others, or the fake one he gave people when he was looking for information- it was a genuine smile.

"Thank you," he said, and John raised an eyebrow.

"For what?"

"You know full well what."

John shrugged. They had stopped walking, but were a fair bit away from the officers that were surrounding the building. It was dark out, night had fallen quickly, and the sky was covered in bright stars.

"It was nothing", John said, thinking. It was true. To John, shooting the cabbie meant saving Sherlock's life. He would do anything to save Sherlock's life.

That thought made him freeze.

"I highly doubt it," Sherlock replied, looking down at John intently.

"Wouldn't you do the same?" John asked, looking up at the taller man.

"Would I?" He stepped closer to John, "How do you know if I would? We've only known each-other a couple of days, after all."

"I certainly _hope _you would, anyway. I saved your life," John smirked up at him, moving slightly closer, "which means you owe me."

"I'll pay for dinner, then," Sherlock said simply.

John shook his head, "I was thinking of a different kind of payment, Sherlock."

Sherlock eyes narrowed for a minute, then smirked, understanding. He leaned closer to John, taking a final step so they were inches apart.

"I think," he said slowly, "I know how to repay you."

And with that, he leaned in and kissed John.

It was simple, for both of them. John froze for a moment, then reached up and held his hands at the nape of Sherlock's neck. He closed his eyes, leaning into the kiss. It lasted for a few minutes, then Sherlock moved away, smiling.

John took a deep breath. "Well," he said, "that," he cleared his throat, "that's good."

"'Good'?" Sherlock echoed, raising an eyebrow.

John nodded, "Bit good."

Sherlock laughed, still smiling, and John started laughing with him.

"Stop," he said, still chuckling, "stop, we're at a crime-scene, you know we can't giggle at a crime-scene."

"True," Sherlock smirked, "but we can giggle at a restaurant. Dinner?" he asked, and began walking away.

"Starving," John grinned, catching up to him.

* * *

_2 - The Return._

"_Sherlock goes back to John after his "death"."_

* * *

Three years.

John had waited three years.

He didn't go to 221b often. Not since the Fall. He stayed there for a week after the event, but it reminded him too much of Sherlock. The experiments, the skull, his scarf and jacket (which had been returned to the flat after the autopsy). It was like Sherlock's ghost was haunting the flat, constantly following John around, whispering in his ear.

_Don't touch that, I'm experimenting the decay of human flesh over the space of a year!_

_Oh, of course, Sarah's here! Now we can have fun(!)_

_Your therapist, really, John? I didn't know I meant so much to you._

_What's Anderson doing here? I mean, I understand why Lestrade is here, but Anderson? Really?_

No matter where John went in the flat, no matter how much he scrubbed the place down or re-arranged things, Sherlock was still there, still haunting John.

So he left. He moved in with Harry, who was cleaning up her act and going sober- granted, there were nights when she arrived home drunk as a skunk and swearing like a sailor (cursing Clara, mostly), but John was happy for those nights. For a few hours, he could forget about Sherlock, forget about the Fall and all those bad thoughts, and just help his sister through the night.

His limp returned.

After a year, and after much persuasion from Harry, Lestrade, Mycroft and Molly, John moved out of his sister's home and found an apartment for himself. He left 221b the way it was, only taking his few things out of the flat to his new place. The first few nights were rough, but after a while, John became accustomed to his new home.

_House,_ he mentally corrected himself often, _this is a house, 221b is home._

There was a tradition he had, though. Every year, on the anniversary of the Fall, John would go to the graveyard and see Sherlock, then go to 221b for a few hours. He would lose himself within those walls, hours slipping by without his notice, and all too soon it would be 3am, and John would most probably be curled up in Sherlock's bed, asleep.

It was tradition. It was the least he could do, in order to remember Sherlock. When he was at the flat, he would remember every little detail about the consulting detective, he would re-read his blog and smile at their cases, he would check Sherlock's website and read about tobacco ash. He would pretend.

And then he would stop. The next morning, he would go home, have a shower, have breakfast, clean himself up, and go to work.

And everything would return to the way it was.

He stood at Sherlock's gravestone now, leaning on his cane, gazing down at the black square of stone and gold writing, that read

_SHERLOCK HOLMES_

and nothing else, as if the name itself said a million things.

John had been there for three hours. It was now 9pm, and he hadn't said a word. Nothing more than a mere, "Hello," when he arrived.

"I miss you," he said quietly, "and I'm still waiting for my miracle." He turned and limped away, leaving a bouquet of flowers behind him.

_Ugh, sentiment, _the voice in his head said every year, but John ignored it every time.

It was a short walk to 221b, John getting lost in his thoughts along the way. Before he knew it, he was standing in front of the door to 221b, fiddling with the key in his pocket. He took a deep breath, slipped the key into the lock, and unlocked the door.

He limped inside, letting in a gust of cold air. He shut the door quietly, hanging his coat on the coat hanger as he did so. The flat was eerily quiet, as usual, but something was different. John couldn't put his finger on it, but there definitely was _something_.

_Don't just stand there,_ Sherlock huffed in his mind, _something's different. Deduce it._

John shook his head, fighting with Sherlock. _"I won't,"_ he thought, _"I refuse to."_

Sherlock stayed silent.

John stepped into the living room, eying the chairs, the window, the fireplace, the television, the doorway to the kitchen, everything.

He took another deep breath, sitting down in- what used to be- his armchair.

Everything was the same.

Except that one thing.

John frowned, rubbing his nose as he looked over at the kitchen doorway.

He narrowed his eyes, standing up and limping over, into the kitchen.

There, on the counter-top. Was a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea.

"I could make you one if you want," came a voice from behind him, and John jumped. He spun around, fists raised, prepared to fight.

What he saw was something- _someone_, he most definitely did not expect to see.

It was Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes.

Who was supposed to be dead.

John froze. Sherlock (alive, really and truly _a-fucking-live_) held his breath, looking down at John.

The latter could see how much Sherlock had changed in the three years (well, death _would _change a person's appearance, after all). His eyes, those ice-blue crystal eyes, were still the same, still as piercing as before. As were his cheekbones (obviously, Sherlock Holmes was nothing without his mind and his cheekbones). But his hair was different- no longer did he have dark curls as black as raven wings, his hair was cut short, and dyed an odd browny-blonde colour. He wasn't wearing his suit or his purple shirt or his signature dressing gown, instead he wore a simple t-shirt and a faded pair of blue jeans.

John blinked.

This wasn't Sherlock. It couldn't be Sherlock. Sherlock was in a wooden coffin buried six feet below. Sherlock was rotting away in a hole, his mind lost to the stars, his heart beat gone. Forever.

John wanted a miracle. He wanted Sherlock- the real Sherlock, in all his arrogance, with his dressing gown and nicotine patches and gun and boredom and Cluedo and texting and laziness and _Sherlock_.

He wanted the true Sherlock. The one he knew for nearly four years. Not this imposter.

"John," Sherlock's doppelganger began, "I know this is a bit of a shock-"

"Who are you?" John cut Sherlock off, and the latter blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"Who are you?" John asked again, more demanding. "Because you're obviously not Sherlock," he walked around Sherlock into the living room. "Not once has Sherlock offered to make me tea. And, y'know, he's kind of _dead_." John turned around, eyebrow raised. "So who are you?"

Sherlock took a small step forward, but didn't say anything.

"You can't be Sherlock," John pinched the bridge of his nose, "Sherlock is arrogant, and cunning, and sneaky, and deceitful, and will do _anything_ to prove that he's right." He looked straight at Sherlock, "But you're not cruel," he said. "And I know you wouldn't let me go through three years- three _bloody _years, Sherlock- of pain and anger and hurt and sadness, without some logical reason. So explain."

Sherlock stayed silent, looking down at his feet. He lifted his head and looked straight at John, eyes soft.

"I jumped for you," he said, but John stayed silent as he continued. "Moriarty had snipers following you," Sherlock explained, "you, and Lestrade, and Ms. Hudson. He said that if I didn't jump the snipers would be sent a signal, and the three of you would die. What was I supposed to do?"

John shrugged, indifferent. "You could have threatened to kill him if he didn't call them off," he said. "You could have killed him anyway."

Sherlock shook his head, "I tried. I thought that if I held him hostage, if I threatened him, he _would_, but I was wrong-"

"-Well, now I know you're definitely not Sherlock, Sherlock would never admit he was wrong," John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, smirking.

"Alright, I get it, you don't believe me," Sherlock snapped, eyes narrowed, "I get that I hurt you, and that my disappearing for three years has altered your mental state completely-"

"Are you saying that your leaving made me _crazy_?" John asked, gaping.

"You're standing there in disbelief that I even _exist_," Sherlock exclaimed, "what am I supposed to say?!"

"SAY YOU'RE SORRY!" John yelled, and Sherlock froze, "Apologise for disappearing for three years, try to explain why you just up and left us! Right when we needed you, when _I _needed you!"

John looked up at Sherlock, pleading.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbled, but John just turned away, out of the room. He grabbed his coat from the peg, opened the front door, and walked out.

Sherlock sighed deeply, rubbing his eyes.

It took John three hours to return.

* * *

_3 - That One Case._

_"Sherlock and John are not together yet. Sherlock says that their current victim was stabbed in the back while his/her lover was kissing him/her. John argues that the lover is not a strong person, the knife is not sharp enough, and the angle is not right either, and Sherlock makes sure to test the theory (at least partly) on John, somehow. So they are too close to each other to not to make your imagination run wild... ;) [I know, the theory is stupid, but that situation... just IMAGINE it! XD]"_

* * *

"It's not possible!" John argued when they entered the flat, following Sherlock through the front door. They were in the midst of a case, and Sherlock and John were arguing about how the victim had died. "You saw her husband, do you honestly think he'd be strong enough and have enough force in his arm to drive that knife- that blunt butter knife- through her back? And at that angle?! Are you mad?!"

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. "No, I'm not 'mad'. It's obvious! They were married, the way he hugged her would leave him with the perfect opportunity to get her in the back! Had to be the husband!"

John groaned, rubbing his temples after he hung his coat up, "You saw that knife, it wasn't sharp enough to even pierce her skin, let alone go through muscle and bone, how could it have gone straight through her back?!"

Sherlock spun around, scowling. "So," he began slowly, "you're absolutely _certain_that he couldn't have killed her like that. Couldn't just drive the knife through her back, no matter what way he held her?"

"Yes," John replied confidently, "yes, I am."

"I'll prove it, then."

John blinked, "What?"

"I'll prove it," Sherlock repeated, "I'll prove that he killed her with a knife through the back."

"I swear to God, Sherlock, if you're gonna go and _kill someone _just to prove you're right-"

"I can't help but feel offended that you think that, John," Sherlock huffed, "and obviously I won't. It will be an experiment."

"What kind of experiment," John asked, eyes narrowed.

Sherlock smirked again, "One of my better ones, I assure you. Trust me, if my theory and observations are correct, this experiment will be..." he paused, then smirked, "...good. For both of us."

"'Good'?" John echoed, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. He crossed his arms. "Alright," he conceded, "we'll bet on it. If you're right, and she was killed that way, I'll pay for the next... let's say, three take-out dinners? And if you're wrong..." he paused, then grinned, "You've to clean out every one of your experiments that aren't be used for a case."

Sherlock gaped at him, then huffed, looking away. He held a hand out to John. "Fine."

John grinned, shaking Sherlock's hand. They walked upstairs, cutting through the living room into the kitchen.

"Tea?" John asked Sherlock, who was following the former closely.

"Coffee, actually," Sherlock replied, and John nodded. He moved over to the sink, filling the kettle and setting it up. Sherlock stepped away for a moment, moving in front of the cutlery drawer.

"Did you talk to Greg about getting those files?" John asked while he was brewing his tea, "The ones about Jonathan's sister? She's still a suspect, you know, she was there on the night."

"I know," Sherlock answered, silently slipping a butter knife out of the drawer, "Haven't talked to him yet."

"Get him on the phone in the morning," John said, "the sooner this case is done, the better." Sherlock just hummed, taking a step closer to John. The latter still had his back to Sherlock.

John spun around, about to ask a question, when in a split second, Sherlock had his arms around the smaller man, the knife pressed against John's back, exactly where the woman had been stabbed.

John held his breath.

"Now," Sherlock began, "I'm not that strong. And this is just a blunt butter knife. And, let's be honest, with the way I'm holding you it would be near impossible to kill you. But don't you think I'd still be able to generate enough force, be it through pure adrenaline, or sudden anger that grew through hatred over time, to finish you? Just a quick stab through your back, and you're done."

John stayed quiet, looking up at Sherlock. His breath was caught in his throat, but Sherlock was perfectly calm, looking down at the ex-army soldier.

"Three dinners, was it?"

* * *

_There you go, hope you liked them!_

_And I'm just saying this now BEFORE you guys start reviewing, I'm not taking anymore requests UNTIL all of these are posted! If anyone sends in a request, I won't do it (harsh, but you gotta do what you gotta do :/) Also, I'm not doing these in any particular order, so you could've been the last person to give me a request, and yours could be the first one up. So you're all gonna have to be patient!_

_Anyway, please review, subscribe for story and author alerts, and favourite!_

_Muchlove!_


	16. Gone

_**Don't own Sherlock, or anything recognisable.**_

_The family got some bad news recently, so I won't be on that much over the next few weeks. That, and school's starting up again, which means a lot of my time is gonna be taken up. But, I will try to get on when I can, and work on the requests whenever I get the free time, so please stick around._

_Apologies to BlueStrawberryIII. I know I said that your chapter would be next, but there's still a lot of your requests I haven't done. I'm gonna get one of the one-shots out of the way before things get too hectic, so at least I gave you guys an update. Pinky promise yours'll be next!_

_I wrote this a while ago, and was pretty hesitant to update it since it's a bit weird. But it's the only thing I've got completed, and I really wanna update something that isn't just an authors note so I'm not breaking any rules, so I figure I may as well._

_Hope you all enjoy._

* * *

_Chapter 16 - Gone._

* * *

Sherlock groaned lightly as he twisted on the sofa, waking up from a deep sleep. He had been working on a case with John, and they had stayed up past 3am just so Sherlock could finish a theory, and make his conclusion.

Naturally, it was that theory that solved the whole case.

When he was finished talking, he called Lestrade and had the Yarders track down the real murderer. He would have done it himself, but John refused to let him leave the flat purely because "It's been over three days, Sherlock, you have to get some food and go to sleep!"

Sherlock, as per usual, believed that he was fine, even though John was right, they hadn't slept in three (or was it four?) days. Before John came along, Sherlock had been fine with long periods of time without any sleep (his longest? Four years ago he reached a week without any sleep, then passed out one night and didn't wake for twelve hours.) He was used to it, his body had adapted to no sleep and barely any food when an interesting case was involved.

Sherlock groaned again as he stretched, then slowly opened his eyes. He had fallen asleep on the couch, probably watching some crap telly with John. Damn the ex-soldier and Ms. Hudson for getting him into crap telly.

He sat up slowly, legs still spread across the couch. He rubbed the back of his neck, then froze.

Something was wrong.

He took out his phone and checked the time. It flashed 9:36am. Sherlock frowned. Didn't John usually wake him up at eight, when he was leaving for surgery? John would never let him sleep in for an hour and a half. It was always wake up at eight, quick cup of tea with John, then John would leave, and Sherlock would start his experiments, or play violin, or bother Mycroft, or something. Why was now different?

"John?" Sherlock called, looking around the room. He could feel it, something wasn't right.

"John?" he called again, standing up and walking around. He walked to the kitchen. John wasn't there. His experiments were spread across the table and the counter-top, and Sherlock stopped for a moment. Didn't John usually clear the table and at least part of the counter before he left in the morning? Something cold set in Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock walked quickly to the hall, checking the coat hooks. Johns coat, scarf, and hat were missing. But it was June, far too warm for all three. He looked to the top of the stairs and called John's name again.

He waited a moment.

No reply.

He sped up the stairs, taking two at a time, and stopped at John's door. He knocked softly, then opened the door. The room was empty, save for the bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers and the little side-table. That was it. No alarm clock, no bedsheets, none of John's personal items on top of the chest of drawers or the side-table. He opened the wardrobe, pulled out the drawers, checked every nook and cranny. There was nothing to prove John had been there for three years.

He slowly walked down the stairs again, looking around at the living-space. He finally realised what was wrong.

Anything and everything John had put in the flat was gone. Any trace of John that John had lived there at all had disappeared. No extra medical books on the bookshelf, John's laptop was gone from it's usual position beside Sherlock's on the coffee table, the jumper was gone from where it was draped over John's armchair (hadn't he put it there last night?). It was all gone.

Sherlock ran out to the hall, donned his coat and left. He needed to have a word with Ms. Hudson.

* * *

"Who, dear?" Ms. Hudson asked, as she poured boiling water into a cup. Sherlock sighed.

"John Watson," he repeated, "my flatmate!" He ran a hand through his dark, curly hair. "He's lived here for three years!"

Ms. Hudson shook her head. "I don't know who you're talking about, Sherlock dear, but I assure you, you're the only person, other than myself, who lives in this building. Well, I don't suppose the skull would count, would it?"

"Ms. Hudson," Sherlock growled, "I don't care about the skull, I care about my missing flatmate!" He began pacing. "He's about a head smaller than me, short blonde hair, blue eyes, he's an ex-army soldier who came back from Afghanistan with a psychosomatic limp, but it went after our first case together! He barely even uses that bloody cane anymore. His left hand shakes when he's annoyed, or upset, or stressed. He has a blog, he writes about the cases we do, he gives them names, for crying out loud!" He turned to Ms. Hudson, who had a little frown. "You can't say you don't remember him, Ms. Hudson!"

She looked at Sherlock pitifully.

"But I don't," she replied quietly.

* * *

Sherlock stormed into New Scotland Yard, his fists clenched at his sides. He looked around, silently fuming, while looking for Lestrade. He spotted Anderson walking over, then groaned. Anderson was the last person Sherlock wanted to talk to.

"Sherlock," Anderson shouted, "thought you only came here when there were bloody murder cases around." He snorted, "Not like we'd want you here, anyway."

Anderson reached Sherlock, and was about to make some snappy comment, when Sherlock grabbed the lapels of Anderson's jacket. Anderson yelled out as Sherlock dragged him close.

"Quite honestly, Anderson," Sherlock began, "I'm having a bit of a problem at the moment, and while I'd love to beat you -yet again- at our little snarky-comment game, I'd much rather you tell me where Lestrade is, and get the hell out of my way."

Anderson paled, then stuttered. "I-in his o-office." He gulped, then yelled out again as Sherlock pushed him out of the way.

He didn't bother knocking when he reached the door to the office of D.I Greg Lestrade, he let himself in.

Lestrade looked up from the files he was reading, then sighed.

"What is it now, Sherlock?" he asked, his voice tired. "What mistake has Anderson made, what test did Molly not do, what have we all over-looked, yet again?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It's nothing like that," he said quietly.

Lestrade looked at him, eyes softening. "What's wrong, Sherlock?"

"I can't find John."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. Sherlock began pacing.

"All his stuff at the flat is missing," he continued, "Ms. Hudson says she doesn't know who he is, it's like he's disappeared off the face of the earth." He looked at Lestrade. "Have you seen him?"

"Wait," Lestrade said, holding a hand up, "who?"

Sherlock yelled out in frustration. Why did no one remember John?!

"_JOHN WATSON_, obviously!" Sherlock yelled, grabbing the edge of Lestrade's desk.

"Sorry, Sherlock," Lestrade said, looking down at his papers again, "I don't know who that is."

"Oh, GOD!" Sherlock was pacing again. "Call my brother if you have to," he said, "he _has _to know John! Call Donovan, she gives John enough hassle, she'd have to know who he is!"

"I assure you, Sherlock," Lestrade huffed, looking up at Sherlock with an eyebrow raised, "if I haven't heard of him, none of the Yarders have. But," he picked up his phone, handing it to Sherlock, "call them both. Call anyone else, I'm positive no-one will know who John Watson is."

Sherlock snatched the phone from Lestrade's hand and started dialing Mycroft Holmes' personal phone number. He smirked, knowing how much Mycroft hated it when people called his phone, not his office.

_"Yes?"_ Mycroft asked, once he answered the phone, _"This better be important Sherlock, I'm about to go into a meeting."_

Sherlock put the phone on loudspeaker, and placed it on the table. He gestured to Lestrade to start talking.

Lestrade sighed, "Hello, Mycroft," he said tiredly, "Sherlock wants me to ask you something."

_"This isn't about that pet frog when he was eight, is it? Because I told him, Detective Inspector, no matter how many times he hassles me about it, I wasn't the one who set him free."_

Sherlock growled, "This is not about Ulysses, and I know it was you!"

_"You say that about anything that went missing in your life!"_

Sherlock froze. 'Everything that went missing...' Those four words rang through his head.

"Where's John?" he asked quietly. He could hear Mycroft sigh.

_"John who?"_

"John Watson," Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth. He knew he had to be civilised if he wanted Mycroft to tell him anything.

_"John Watson?"_ Mycroft paused, and the phone crackled. _"Never heard of him. I used to have a John Colford as an assistant, but that was quite a long time ago."_

"No, not Colford, Watson."

_"Anthea,"_ Mycroft said to his assistant, _"check our files for a John Watson._"

Sherlock heard a mumble of a reply, and waited.

"Well?" he asked after a few minutes.

He heard a mumble, another crackle. _"No, Sherlock,"_ Mycroft said and Sherlock dipped his head, _"there's no John Watson in our files."_

* * *

Sherlock walked home, choosing not to take a cab. It was cold, surprisingly, considering it was supposed to be sweltering hot that day. Sherlock was glad he had his coat.

His steps were slow, he was taking his time. He had no-one to rush home to now, so there was no need to hurry. He passed a few tourists (Irish, man and a woman, woman twenty eight and pregnant, five weeks along, man thirty, had a wife before, she died of an illness at twenty three, both hoping for a boy, both single children, came to London to see the woman's sister). It all went through his head in a few seconds, and he frowned as he thought that John wouldn't be there anymore to call his skills "brilliant", or "amazing".

Sherlock looked around. A lot of things would be different now that he didn't have John.

He'd have to go back to talking to the skull. Sherlock snorted, talking to the skull was just driving him crazier. No-one would complain about his 3am violin playing, no-one (except, maybe, Mycroft) would tell him to sleep and eat and just relax. It would be left to Lestrade and Mycroft to stop him taking drugs again (they usually failed at it, John was the only one who could convince him to stop). His world would be cold, empty, Sherlock would go into his little sociopath world, all because he only had a skull to talk to on lonely nights.

Mind you, now that John had disappeared, most nights would be lonely. The telly would be left unwatched, bullet holes would appear in the walls again. The flat would gather dust again, because it was always John who cleaned up, always John who made sure the table was clear so they had room to eat, always John who made sure Sherlock didn't go back to drugs, to excessive amounts of alcohol, to being alone again.

John had brightened Sherlock's world. He had a reason to try impress someone at a crime-scene, not just solve the case then leave. Their table at Angelo's would no longer seat them, Sherlock's life would just tumble back into the black and grey colours John had made disappear. John made sure that Sherlock had something to live for, and now that John was gone...

John was gone.

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the path.

_No._

John couldn't be gone. It was impossible for him to be gone. Sherlock refused to believe it.

He walked faster, heading towards 221b Baker Street.

Sherlock needed evidence.

* * *

It took a while, but at last, Sherlock had found something to prove John's existence.

The scarf.

The one that Sarah (Sherlock scowled as he thought of her) had bought for John as a spontaneous present a year ago. John, being kind, accepted the present from his girlfriend (Sherlock scowled again), though Sherlock knew John didn't really wear scarves. John had arrived home that evening, putting the scarf on the table, still wrapped in a bow, and went to the kitchen. Sherlock eyed the gift suspiciously, (deducing that it was bought in the clothes shop close to where Sarah lived, store-wrapped, obviously a last-minute thought as she was leaving to see John, considering the price-tag was only half-ripped off of the scarf), and asked why he hadn't opened it yet. Sherlock knew already that John didn't like the scarf, he would have opened it and wore it while out with Sarah if he did, but he wanted to hear John say it himself.

And he did. What Sherlock wasn't expecting was for John to offer it to him, "Think of it as an early Christmas present, then," he had said.

Admittedly, it was an ugly scarf, but Sherlock smiled softly at the gesture, something John had rarely seen Sherlock do, let alone at something so small.

And here it was now, Sherlock had found it buried in his wardrobe, slightly dusty, but still wrapped in the bow, with a price-tag still half-ripped off.

He took a picture of it and sent it to Lestrade and Mycroft, adding a message to the picture.

"_Found evidence, early Christmas present JW gave me last year, PROOF. You can't say he doesn't exist now. SH"_

The reply from Lestrade was instant,

_"I swear I've seen that scarf somewhere before. Wasn't it Mycroft who gave it to you?"_

Sherlock scowled. _"Wrong,"_ he typed quickly,_ "it was given to JW by his girlfriend at a last minute gift, but he didn't want it, and he offered it to me. I swear, you can even ask the girlfriend, Sarah Sawyer. Works at the Surgery near Bart's. SH"_

Next came the reply from Mycroft.

"_Sherlock, I gave you that scarf. Last year, in November. Don't you remember? You were freezing at a crime-scene and refused to wear a scarf, saying you didn't have one. MH"_

Sherlock growled. He sent Mycroft the same reply he sent Lestrade and waited.

The messages came in a few minutes later, at the same time.

Mycroft's was the first he read. "_No, I gave it to you. I had Anthea keep the receipt. MH" _Sherlock scowled, but didn't bother to reply.

Lestrade's said; "_Mycroft just sent me a text, it was the scarf he gave you. No JW was ever involved."_

Sherlock yelled out in frustration, throwing the phone at the wall. It bounced off with a _smack_, landing somewhere under the table. Sherlock didn't mind, it had received far worse before.

* * *

Time passed quickly. What felt like an hour had passed, yet it was nearly a month. A month of sitting around 221B, brooding the loss of his flatemate. His friend.

His only friend.

There was no evidence.

No crime-scene, no bodies (something Sherlock, for the first time in a while, was thankful for). There was no data, and therefore nothing to add to Sherlock's hard-drive. Without new data, especially in the space reserved for John, it began to slowly fade away. It was like a virus had entered, and it was slowly eating away at what Sherlock remembered of the ex-soldier. His blue eyes (or were they brown?), his short build (wasn't he taller than Sherlock?), his limp (was it on the left leg, or the right leg?). Sherlock was forgetting everything about him, and pretty soon, John was a stranger to him. All that remained was a name.

It killed Sherlock on the inside. It tore him apart.

He nearly went to drugs again, until a familiar thought went through his head, one that showed up and stayed whenever Sherlock considered drugs; "_John wouldn't want this_."

What scared Sherlock, though, was the new thought that came after, one he never heard before.

_"Or would he?"_

It was driving Sherlock insane, and he was about to crack.

What set him over the edge, was a certain comment from Donovan.

* * *

He was at a crime-scene. (A triple murder, brothers. They were all in debt, and they asked for money off a rich uncle who had been in a fight with their mother. Clearly the father's fault due to the drinking. Mother commited suicide, father drank himself to death. Aunt and uncle were left in the will to be guardian of the brother's. Uncle was willing to give the brother's the money they needed, yet they were killed before the transaction was made. Aunt was the murderer, she wanted to keep the money.) After checking the bodies and the scene, Sherlock spoke his deductions aloud to the Yarders. He was tired, he wanted to go home.

He had reached that point where everything was just a blur. His mind wasn't as sharp, but he still made the deductions.

Sherlock finished the explanations within a matter of moments, and (even though this was a while after he realised John was gone), still expected to hear John compliment him. He closed his eyes. The compliment never came.

His eyes still closed, he heard Donovan and Lestrade walk up and stand beside him.

He felt a hand settle on his shoulder, and he turned to see Lestrade with a small sad, almost pitying frown.

"I know how you feel, Sherlock," he said. Sherlock thought his voice sounded off. Slightly distorted. It made Sherlock frown. "You're still missing this Watson bloke. But you have to learn to let go. He's not coming back, no matter how much you want him to."

Donovan snorted, and Lestrade turned to her with an eyebrow raised. She shrugged, "Personally," she began, "I think it's wonderful that the freak finally realised his imaginary friend isn't real." Sherlock turned to her with narrowed eyes, and Lestrade gave her a hard glare. "I mean," Donovan continued, "an ex-soldier, who is also a doctor, who would live with him, and be happy to put up with him on a daily basis? Honestly," she scoffed, "he's got to be imaginary."

That was it.

Sherlock stood up tall, and turned so his whole body was facing Donovan's. He shrugged off Lestrade's hand, and raised a fist.

It shot towards Donovan's face.

And then everything went black.

* * *

Sherlock gasped and shot up, sitting straight. He had woken up in shock, after having the worst nightmare. He couldn't remember what it was about exactly, but it made him feel scared, helpless, and alone.

In truth, it terrified him.

He checked the time on his phone. 7:54am. He ran a hand through his dark curls and looked around. It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the dark. The blinds and curtains were still closed, and the only source of light was the faint glow of the outside world fighting through them.

But even though that was his only light, the room still seemed brighter.

He heard a rattle from upstairs, and froze. He heard footsteps, thudding across the floor in John's old room (was there a window in there?). They crossed to the door, and the door opened with a squeak. They moved across the hall, down the seventeen steps of the staircase, and moved down the main hall towards the living room, stopping at the door.

Sherlock stood up quietly, and moved to the fireplace. He took his gun off the mantel, and held it close. He stood flat against the wall.

The door opened.

"Sherlock?" a voice asked, as the door opened slowly. Sherlock froze again. That voice...

"Sherlock?" The door opened fully, and the person moved towards the closest window. Sherlock made his deduction before the curtain was opened.

Male, late thirties. Both an ex-soldier and a doctor, served time in Afghanistan but was sent home due to an injury. A brother- _no_, something in Sherlock's head insisted, _a sister_, who was an alcoholic, and he often had to take care of her.

Sherlock's jaw dropped as the curtains opened.

It was John.

John turned around, and jumped slightly when he saw Sherlock with the gun.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John said, running a hand through his short, blonde hair, "no need for the gun." He stepped over and took the gun from Sherlock, putting it back in it's place on the mantel. "Help me with the curtains then, considering you're up. Tea?"

Sherlock was still in the same place, still in shock.

John stopped when Sherlock didn't follow him into the kitchen like he usually did. He moved over to Sherlock and looked at him, like he was studying him.

"Are you alright?" John asked. Sherlock didn't reply. "Sherlock?" he said, and stepped closer to the taller man. "Are you sick?" he asked. John moved a hand to Sherlock's forehead, his cheeks, grabbed Sherlock's wrist to check his pulse. Sherlock seemed fine. His pulse was flowing quicker than usual, quickly tapping along, but other than that the man was fine.

John placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and gave him a light shake. "Sherlock," he said, "you're scaring me, what's wrong?"

Sherlock's eyes focused on John's.

"You're here?" he asked quietly. John nodded. "You're real?" John nodded again, slower this time.

"Is everything alright?" John asked.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then did something completely out of character.

He hugged John.

It was a spontaneous decision, Sherlock quickly clamping his arms around the smaller man's waist, and staying there, John's head reaching his chin. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

"Never leave," Sherlock whispered.

John was shocked, but smiled softly and hugged Sherlock back. He laughed lightly.

"I'd never dream of it."

* * *

_There you go, hope you guys liked it. I'll try finish those requests when I can, and get them up as soon as possible, but I make no promises._

_Remember to review, subscribe to alerts, favourite, etc._

_Muchlove._


	17. Requests Part 2

_**Don't own Sherlock, or anything recognisable!**_

_Starting off on my second Chapter of requests. This whole chappie is dedicated to BlueStrawberryIII, who gave me some truly awesome suggestions. I apologise if some of these are terrible, I wrote half of them at 1am ._._

_I doubled up on some of the requests, because they fit together so well (e.g: "Cuddling" with "crap telly", and "Sherlock pissing someone off and getting in a fight" with "Anderson annoying Sherlock", etc). Hope that's ok! Not mush else to say, other than the usual, 'Hope you enjoy!'_

_Also, AN at the bottom, be sure to check it out._

_Rated T for light swearing, but not too much!_

* * *

_Chapter 17 - Requests (Part 2 - BlueStrawberryIII)_

* * *

_1) Blow It Up._

_"An experiment explodes in the fridge and John finds it while looking for dinner stuff."_

* * *

"Are you hungry for-"

"-no."

"I was just going to offer to make-"

"-make dinner, I know, and I said 'no'."

"But you haven't eaten since yesterday! I should know, I've been monitoring you!"

"'Monitoring' me?! Oh John, your doubt hurts."

"You're having something to eat."

"Fine, we'll get take-away."

"If starvation doesn't kill you, eating too many take-aways _definitely _will. I'm making dinner."

"I _honestly _don't think you should go near the kitchen."

"Why? What did you do now!?"

"..."

"..."

"-JOHN DON'T GO NEAR THE-"

"-WHAT HAPPENED TO THE FRIDGE?!"

"..."

"Well?!"

"...experiment exploded in the fridge."

"...take-away it is, then."

* * *

_2) Some Nights._

_"Cuddling :3" "Crap telly (?)"_

* * *

Some nights, usually after a long case or after a fight, they would just relax. The adrenaline would wear off, they would both be tired and worn out, and all they would want is to crash on the sofa, with a strong cup of tea, and watch some crap telly. They would order take-out, not bothered to go out or cook anything themselves, and then tidy up all the trays and containers the following morning.

For one night, they world would just stop.

It was always like that. Even at the start, when they finished up A Study In Pink. John had shot a cabbie, Sherlock nearly swallowed the poison, and the cabbie had given out some useful information. That night they ordered take-away, finally had a proper night at their new home, and just relaxed. It was one of those rare few moments when John had seen Sherlock when his mind wasn't racing a hundred miles a second.

Of course, things changed a little bit.

More cases came, and ended with more lazy nights. The Fall came and went, leaving John scarred, and 221b empty. Sherlock returned, much to everyone's surprise, and John... Well, let's just say John went through various emotions that night, which ended in him both kissing Sherlock and punching him square in the jaw within two minutes.

Eventually life at 221b returned to normal. John got a new job, working as a coroner for New Scotland Yard, and Sherlock returned to working as a Consulting Detective (though was keeping quiet about the whole back-from-the-dead thing), helping out New Scotland Yard and Lestrade whenever they needed him.

At home, things were different.

There were more lazy nights, only this time Sherlock and John would share the same sofa, sometimes just sitting side-by-side, sometimes eating take-aways, sometimes cuddling.

The cuddling was the best, in John's opinion. Sherlock wasn't just straight lines and angles, as everyone thought he was.

Sherlock liked the cuddling, too. He had never been that physically close to anyone, other than his mother when he was much younger. He could hold John close, find out where his ticklish spots were (underneath his left arm and just below the base of his neck).

More often than not, though, they would just end up watching a movie, or crap telly. Ms. Hudson had joined them one evening, with tea and biscuits, and a round of Jeremy Kyle.

(Not the American one, though. Sherlock would just stand up and walk out of the room mif they even switched it on for a second, claiming that the stupidity of some American's was, "too much to handle.")

Which was fine, because Sherlock could catch up with his experiments and John could catch up with his episodes of Doctor Who.

Things were different, there was no doubt.

But things were great.

* * *

_3) Deductions._

_"John and Sherlock walk down the street. Sherlock deduces everybody."_

* * *

"What about her?" John asked, pointing to a teenage girl as he and Sherlock walked down the road. They were on their way to a crime scene, and Sherlock had started deducing people they passed by.

"From her clothes," the Consulting Detective began, "you would assume that she's meeting up with someone. If she was dressed in formal attire it would be obvious she was meeting up with family, she's too young to be going for a job interview or a meeting or anything like that- her clothes are more casual, but still slightly formal so it isn't a group of friends, otherwise she would just be casual. Make-up, hair obviously done, and-" he took a deep breath, "-perfume. Looks nervous but excited as well, so she's probably going for a date or going to see someone she likes. It's only the start of their relationship, otherwise they would have met up either at her house or his. She spent her time getting ready, so obviously her parents approve, if they didn't she would have been in a rush to get ready and go out, thus she wouldn't have had enough time to perfect her hair and make-up. Clothes look new, from her hair accessories to her shoes, definitely not worn already or passed down from a sibling, which tells us that she's an only child. Keeps looking around, as if trying to find someone, probably her date."

John started laughing, "No, how could you _possibly _know-"

"Wait," Sherlock stopped him, looking discreetly at the girl, "watch. Don't stare."

"You're staring!"

"Well, we can't _both _stare." John rolled his eyes, then glanced at the girl.

Sherlock and John stopped on the path, stepping in closer to the wall. The girl turned around, spotted someone, then smiled and waved. She took a deep breath, and her smile changed to a full grin as a boy, who looked around a year older (and who was also dressed smart-casual), appeared beside her and gave her a quick hug. He made a gesture, she nodded, and they walked off in the opposite direction.

"Unbelievable," John gasped, then frowned, "No, wait, how d'you know that wasn't her brother or something?"

"Did you see her smile?" Sherlock asked, "And that hug? Had to be a romantic relationship."

John blinked, "Okay, I'll give you that one. Try someone else."

Sherlock looked around, eyeing up the people surrounding them on the busy street. He spotted someone, smirked, then turned to John.

"Elderly man, outside the coffee shop, talking to a younger man. Go."

John frowned, "Go where?"

"Go try it," Sherlock explained, "Try deduce them."

"No," John shook his head, "no way. The last thing I deduced was a pair of _shoes_, and even then you said I did terribly. No. I won't."

"It's actually quite simple," Sherlock began, but John cut him off.

"For you, maybe," he huffed, "but, sadly, the rest of us mortals have to suffer through not having super-fast genius brains."

Sherlock scowled, "Just try it."

John shook his head, and Sherlock sighed.

"Come on, then," he said, pulling John along, "but next time you're trying it."

* * *

_4) Round One._

_"Sherlock ** someone off and gets into a fight." "Anderson being a jerk/annoying Sherlock."_

* * *

They were at a crime-scene, as usual. John was over beside the body of a thirteen year old boy who had gone missing a week prior, and Sherlock was talking to Lestrade about the case.

"It had to be the sister!" Sherlock insisted, and Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Why would his sister kill him if he was kidnapped by the neighbour?" he asked.

"Because she was in on it!" Sherlock exclaimed, and Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Come on, Lestrade," Sherlock continued, "we talked to their parents, even _they _said she was acting weird!"

"Yeah, because her brother _just got kidnapped!_I'm not closing this case unless we get full, proper proof that she did it, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

Sherlock scowled, spinning around and stalking over to John and the body.

"What have you found?" he asked when he reached the ex-army doctor, but John just shrugged from his place on the ground.

"Nothing much," he replied, standing up. "Entry wound shows that it was a surprise attack, so obviously he knew the person who attacked, but had his back turned, and..."

Sherlock didn't hear much after that. He knew he was right, of course he was! But something else had grabbed his attention.

Anderson and Donovan were standing over to the side of the scene, watching Sherlock and John talking. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at them, and they both turned away, snorting out giggles. They turned back, trying to keep straight faces, but failing at it. Donovan stumbled off to talk to Lestrade, and Sherlock walked over to Anderson.

"Something funny?" he asked, but Anderson just shook his head, still smirking.

"What," Sherlock continued, "you can't talk now, either? Huh, all that sleeping around behind your wife's back must be killing your braincells."

Anderson instantly stopped smirking, blushing a deep red colour. "What the hell are you talking about?" he barked, and Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"Oh please, it's so obvious it actually _hurts_."

"I am _not _sleeping around behind my wife's back!" Anderson insisted, "Where could you possibly get that from?!"

"Oh do you _really_ want me to elaborate?" Sherlock asked, then smirked. "For one, the way you are around Sargent Donovan, as if it wasn't obvious enough that the two of you have 'hooked up', she may be wearing trousers but you can still see her socks when she walks- sorry, _your _socks, which is an obvious indication that she slept over at yours last night." Anderson was obviously getting annoyed, but Sherlock pressed on, "Another is a hint from Miss. Daley, the new intern? She's wearing your deodorant, which is an indication that you slept over at hers some night between last Friday and Sunday just gone. Why would she use your deodorant if she had her own? Obviously ran out, you might've left yours at her place- no wonder there's been an awful stench following you all morning- so she obviously saw no harm in borrowing it until you picked it up the next night you were-"

Anderson cut him off with a swift punch to the jaw.

Sherlock stumbled back a few steps, cursing under his breath. People near them gasped, stopping what they were doing. Sherlock wiped at his bleeding lip, growled, literally growled, and dived at Anderson, starting a full-on fist-fight in the middle of a crime-scene.

John heard the commotion and turned away from the body, looking around to see what was going on. He spotted Sherlock and Anderson, then sighed, "Sherlock..."

Lestrade and Donovan were the first there. Lestrade ripped Sherlock away from Anderson before the former hopped on the latter's back, and Donovan dragged Anderson away.

"See," Anderson yelled out, "he's a psychopath, a bloody psychopath!"

"You threw the first punch," Sherlock snapped, struggling in Lestrade's hold, "you had it coming!"

"_SHERLOCK_," John yelled, running over. All colour drained from Sherlock's flushed face.

_"Please,_" John began, "_please_, don't tell me you just hit Anderson."

"He started it-" Sherlock began, but John cut him off.

"I don't care who started it," John began, "you obviously said something to piss him off, like you always do- _don't deny it_- so apologise."

"But John-" Sherlock whined.

"-'but' nothing, Sherlock. Apologise!"

Everyone around them was silent, all their attention on John and Sherlock.

The latter took a deep breath, standing up taller and jutting his chin out. He looked down at Anderson.

"I'm sorry I insulted you," he muttered, looking away.

Anderson's jaw dropped. Not once had Sherlock ever apologised for aggravating him.

He looked at John, who was watching him intently.

"Sorry I punched you," he replied, looking away from John's gaze.

John nodded, then looked up at Sherlock. "Come on," he said, grasping his arm and tugging him away from Lestrade and the crowd the fight had gathered, "you need to cool down."

They walked away, John talking to Sherlock, and Anderson watched them go.

Lestrade began to wave away the crowd, telling them to get back to work and sort out the crime-scene.

Donovan was shocked. She turned to Anderson. "Who knew," she said, "that John Watson could tame the freak."

* * *

_5) Snoring._

_"Sherlock starts getting sleepy during a case (because he's stayed up for about three or so days)." "Moriarty appearance because of reasons" "More parentlock!"_

* * *

Sherlock yawned, rubbing at his eyes. He was tired. For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes was actually _tired_.

Domesticity didn't suit him. He was still adjusting to the new member of the family, their newborn son, Artemis (or Artie, for short). Molly had spent nine months of pregnancy, happy to give Sherlock and John their baby boy and happy to claim the title of godmother.

Ms. Hudson fell in love with the child. The moment they walked in with the little bundle in their arms, she had "Ooohh"ed and "Awwwhhh"ed at him, promising to treat him like she was her grandson, spoil him rotten, and love him more than the world.

Sherlock was happy to repeat, even after all these years, that if Ms. Hudson ever left, England would fall.

But still, as adorable as their child was, Artemis wasn't a fan of sleeping. No, no, he would much rather wake up ever couple of hours and cry.

And it was bad enough that Sherlock had stayed up the two nights before comforting John because of nightmares that the last case had triggered and worrying about Artemis.

But, Sherlock had to admit, Artemis during the day was a _wonderful_ distraction.

He bought a coffee from Speedy's, before hopping in a cab with John to head to New Scotland Yard. Lestrade had invited them in to interrogate a suspect for their newest case, so they had left Artemis with Ms. Hudson for a few hours. The last time they had two cases so close together was just before the Pool Incident, so the Yarders, along with Sherlock and John, were taking extra care with these cases, just in case Moriarty was involved again.

They arrived at New Scotland Yard quickly, Sherlock going ahead to meet up with Lestrade, leaving John to pay the taxi fare. Sherlock went looking for Lestrade, but was told that he was in a meeting, and had to wait.

They sat down at a sofa area, near the front of the building. It must have been recently installed, because Sherlock didn't remember ever seeing it there before. Two plush cream sofas, a small mahogany coffee table, and a few magazines. It gave a sort of homely feel to the otherwise intimidating building, Sherlock thought. John sighed as he sat down, slumping into the sofa and picking up a magazine, flipping through it. Sherlock sat precariously on the edge of the seat, slowly moving to a more comfortable position. He leaned his head back, looking up at the ceiling of the building, counting the tiles. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, planning on going to his mind palace.

John looked up from an article he was reading, frowning. He looked over at Sherlock, about to ask him something, but stopped before he said a word.

Sherlock was snoring lightly, mouth open, after falling asleep. John held back a laugh, then went back to reading his article.

He would wake Sherlock up when Lestrade needed them. For now, Sherlock needed all the sleep he could get.

* * *

_6) Bang Bang._

_"John gets held up at a video game store trying out a shooting game."_

* * *

He didn't mean to stay there for so long.

Honestly.

It was bound to look weird, after all. Not to mention highly suspicious, too.

But when he walked by the arcade window, glanced in, and saw the machine...

Well, what's an ex-soldier to do?

So what if it was a game designed for children.

So what if he had cheered when he got the high-score.

He was an ex-soldier, dammit.

And if he wanted to play a shooting game, you can be damn well sure he was going to be good at it.

...even if he was an hour late to dinner with Sherlock.

* * *

_All done! And I had an awesome time writing these. Thanks again to BlueStrawberryIII for the kick-ass suggestions, and I hope you all liked them :D_

_So onto this AN. Most of you seem really psyched about "Sign" becoming a proper story, which is awesome, but I have to be honest... I didn't really work on it so much while I was away. NOT TO WORRY, THOUGH. This school year is gonna be a lot less hectic than last year, which means I'll be able to work on it over time and hopefully get a few chapters written up before Christmas. I know, I know, I keep putting it off, but you guys are just gonna have to be patient. Plus, y'know, there's a lot of research and stuff I have to do if I want the plot to go the way I imagined it would. If you're just reading all the stories and stuff on this site, then you wouldn't realise the amount of research and effort that goes into some of the work on here. I'm pretty sure all the writers on here would love to just type and have an awesome piece of writing spew out, but, sadly, that hardly **ever **happens. Hence the ever-hated "hiatus" and the reason we take so long to update sometimes. Anyway, I'm rambling, I apologise xD In short, just sit tight, subscribe for author alerts so you guys'll be the first to know when "Sign" is uploaded, and we'll see how it goes. And remember, if you have any questions or queries about the story, or have any ideas for how the plot should go, send me a PM, and I'll try get back to you and brainstorm (and, yes, credit will be given for any ideas I may use)._

_Virtual cookies and cups of John's wonderful tea to anyone who read all that mess up there._

_(And for those of you who have absolutely no idea what "Sign" is, but are curious, check out chapter 3 for the original one-shot, and ANs at the end of chapters 4 and 13, for news on it becoming a proper fanfic.)_

_Also, I'm attending a funeral on Wednesday, AND getting my exam results, so it's going to be a pretty emotional week :/ What I'm trying to say is, I won't be posting for a while, but I'll try get those requests done ASAP, OK?_

_Please remember to review, subscribe to author and story alerts, and favourite._

_Muchlove, you guys rock!_


	18. Artemis

_So hi..._

_Oh god it's been a while._

_Well, my laptop crashed. So I've lost everything. The requests list, the requests I had finished but didn't post, all the work I had done for Sign..._

_And I only got it repaired... last week? Mum and dad gave it to me for Christmas._

_Tears were shed._

_And I was going to funerals, and I had tours to do..._

_Yeah._

_Nothing really makes up for it._

_However! I know that a few people wanted more parent!lock, so I present the introduction of Artemis/Artie._

_Read on, sorry for the hiatus, and happy holidays :)_

_OH! And, if anyone's interested, I'm in the workings of two new crossovers. Sherlock/Doctor Who, and Sherlock/The Saga of Darren Shan._

_(You can guess where they're gonna go. Johnlock for all.)_

_The reason I'm mentioning it here is I'm looking for a few OCs to throw in to both of them._

_So, if anyone's up to it, or has a character they'd like me to include, either leave a review or PM me, and we shall discuss it!_

_Alright, that's it, read on xD_

* * *

_Chapter 18 - Artemis._

* * *

They were at Bart's. After being there for seven hours, it was the first time Sherlock would ever admit he was tired, both mentally and physically. He just wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep, even just for an hour or two.

Of course he could chase criminals around London for three hours, but staying up all night, doing nothing but sitting, and pacing and _waiting_ for so long?

Yes. Sherlock was tired.

John was there, though. Doing the same hours Sherlock was, counting the seconds and the minutes, getting the coffee, checking up with nurses, doing everything twice as much because Sherlock just... couldn't. Because Sherlock would slip away into his mind palace, or he'd detach himself from everyone, or he'd yell at the nurses.

(And John just didn't trust him with the coffee. Not after Baskerville.)

At the nine hour mark, John was starting to lose it. He knew that child-labour could take hours, but he couldn't help worrying. Was something wrong? He would pace back and forth down the corridor, the worry obvious in his features.

Sherlock was sitting down in one of the uncomfortable, flimsy plastic chairs, watching John carefully as he marched from one end of the corridor to the other. Occasionally he would stop and tilt his head to the left, listening for something, and Sherlock would subconsciously hold his breath. After a few seconds, John would shake his head, and carry on marching, as if he never stopped at all. It was driving Sherlock insane.

After the 187th time John passed by him, Sherlock reached out and grasped his wrist before he moved on. John looked down at him, waiting.

"Sit down," Sherlock said, nodding his head towards the empty chair beside him. John shook his head, and Sherlock sighed, "You need to relax John, so sit down." Again, John shook his head.

"I can't sit down," he replied, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "I can't sit down, I can't sit still, I can't wait and do _nothing_. You're alright, you can go to your bloody mind palace and the hours'll just melt away, but, sadly, not all of us are capable of just switching off like that. I can't sit down, I can't just twiddle my thumbs while she's in there-" his voice broke, and Sherlock's gaze softened just a bit, "I can't sit here while she's in there all alone. The door's even soundproofed for God's sake! Like they don't want us to know anything! I'm a bloody _doctor,_ and they're not even letting me in to help out!" Sherlock held both of John's hands with his own, waiting while John gathered his thoughts. After a few moments, Sherlock spoke.

"You're nervous. Worried, most likely. About both Molly _and_ the child- which is quite understandable, given the circumstance. The army had you working while you waited for orders, so you, in a tense situation, cannot sit down and wait patiently, it's become physically impossible for you to do. Even in our work, with the cases, you want to help out. Maybe you want to feel needed, maybe you simply need to do _something_-"

"-Sherlock-" John tried interrupting, but Sherlock carried on.

"-And I understand that completely. But you must accept that there is nothing you can do, John. Definitely not right now. When the time comes, we will be allowed into the room, and then we can begin this... adventure," John smiled, looking at their hands. Sherlock continued, "But until then, we must wait. No matter how long it takes. So, you will come here, sit beside me in one of these ungodly chairs, and try to get some sleep. Honestly, you look like a mess."

"Oi!" John exclaimed, nudging Sherlock's shin with his foot. Sherlock shrugged, and John sighed. "Bloody hell, you're probably right, though." He sat down beside Sherlock, rubbing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Sherlock rested a hand hesitantly on John's back, and the latter relaxed slightly, leaning into the touch.

"It's just..." John sighed again, "I'm a doctor. I've studied pregnancies, and what happens when women go into labour, and how babies get delivered and everything. So I can't help but think about what could go wrong. I studied so much in Uni, it's coming back to haunt me now. It's like..." he paused, then looked up at Sherlock. "It's like you," he said, "like when you're deducing things. You can't help it. You look at someone and you instantly _know_ everything." Sherlock was listening aptly. John continued, "I'm like that with medical stuff. I look at a dead body, I can, basically, deduce how the person died. It's all up here," he tapped his temple, "so if I'm not being told anything about what's happening in there..." He looked towards the door, sighing again. He didn't need to say anymore, Sherlock understood him.

They both stayed silent, lost in their own thoughts. John thinking about Molly, and the baby, and the nurses, and constantly wondering was everything OK. Sherlock thinking about John, and the child, and what he could do to calm John down. Logically, he had nothing to worry about. The natural mortality rate, or chance of the baby dying during childbirth was 1500 deaths per 100,000 births, and around 10 deaths per 100,000 births in America. Then again, they had to consider neonatal death, intrapartum asphyxia, and, of course, that the birthing could harm Molly...

Sherlock began to worry.

They hadn't taken these things into consideration. They hadn't thought about what it could do to Molly, or whether or not the child would be harmed. They hadn't discussed what they would do if something went wrong, and the-

A loud cry broke through his train of thought, causing both him and John to freeze and look up sharply.

A short nurse with long brunette hair and huge brown eyes was standing at the door, holding it open a small bit, smiling at them. She gestured for them to follow her into the room. Her name-tag said, "Clara O."

Sherlock and John stood up, walking towards the door slowly. John subconsciously reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand with his own, squeezing tightly. Sherlock squeezed back, and John smiled at him. They followed Clara into the room, and the crying began to stop.

Molly was a wreck. She was lying down on the bed, hair tied up in a messy bun, sweat dripping from her forehead. She smiled weakly when she saw them, eyes half-closed. Nurses were bustling around the room, and three were swarmed over to the left, blocking something from view. Sherlock froze, watching as one of the three nurses walked over to Molly, delicately handing her a little bundle of blankets. Molly looked down, moved the top of the blanket, and grinned. She looks tired, but Sherlock was certain he had never seen her look so happy.

She looked up at them, still grinning. "Come over," she said quietly, moving the bundle slightly. John let go of Sherlock's hand, walking over towards the bed slowly. When he finally reached Molly, he looked down at the bundle of blankets, and froze.

Sherlock, still standing at the door, began to panic. Was something wrong? Was the child deformed? What made John freeze like that? His mind was racing a mile a minute, but went blank when John looked up at him, grinning.

"A boy," John chocked out, tearing up slightly, still grinning, "we have a boy."

Sherlock felt it, then. A rush of endorphins, running from the top of his brain to the tips of his toes, making his hair stand on end.

A boy.

He had a son.

_They had a son._

Sherlock's mind was blank as he watched John, asking to hold the child. Molly nodded, and placed the boy gently in John's arms. John held him close, still grinning. He looked up at Sherlock, still standing at the door, and nodded for him to come closer.

Sherlock took a few hesitant steps, and all too soon he was standing beside John, who was clutching onto that bundle of blankets like he never wanted to let go.

_They had a son._

Sherlock looked down at him, and their son opened his eyes for the first time.

They were like a whirl-wind of blue and green and grey and white. Eyes that looked like they could see the whole universe with every blink.

Sherlock's eyes.

With a little tuft of blonde hair that most definitely came from John.

Sherlock was speechless.

Clara appeared at his elbow, holding a chart and a pen. She began to scribble something down, then looked to Molly.

"Name?" she asked, smiling.

Molly shook her head, nodding towards John and Sherlock, "That's up to them."

Clara looked at them, still smiling, and Sherlock and John looked at each other. John raised his eyebrow at Sherlock, and Sherlock nodded. John grinned, then turned towards Clara.

"His name is Artemis Hamish Watson-Holmes."

_Their son._

* * *

_Yay I finished!_

_At... 2:53am._

_Oy vey._

_Some of Mycroft's cake for anyone who can see where I had my Doctor Who feels._

_Happy holidays, I'm off to sleep, and I'll upload this in the morning._

_Muchlove._


	19. Real Or Not Real?

_The response I got to the last chapter was awesome!_

_Shout out to Dancing Eyes and ShadowQueen1996 for noticing my Doctor Who feels!_

_SO this one is dedicated to an anonymous reviewer, who left me a review saying this:_

_"Anonymousadmirer: Doctorlock, I'm excited! This is my first time reviewing(cause this is my first time reading- and not just this fic, but in this fandom altogether!), and can I say you are fantastic! I can't wait for Sign or the crossover. Also, you are a perfect human being and I love you. Very much. So congratulations on being amazing! And I also pretty please have a prompt, if you're still accepting/doing those? Can you do John who refuses to believe Sherlock is alive? Because he's imagined him coming back so many times and deducing up some pretty believable reasons for Sherlock to be alive- he thinks the real Sherlock is his hallucinations again. So let me see reassuring Sherlock doing a bunch of stuff to convince John he's real. Angst/fluff, flangst if you will(which you will, apparently, based on your authors notes:D) anyways, thanks for being awesome again!"_

_Flangst is catching on! Yay!_

_So, darling anonymous reviewer, can I just personally thank you? Because I was having an absolute rubbish day, and then you leave this review, which is probably one of the nicest reviews I've ever received for anything I've ever written. Like seriously, I was nearly in tears after reading this, because everything was just crap, and then you're there and you're saying how awesome I am and how amazing my work is, and not only that, BUT YOU'RE A NEWBIE TO REVIEWING TOO AND YOU'RE SO NICE. It's hard to try find someone who's this nice in reviews! Usually it's just people correcting things or requesting things or pointing things out and, yes, occasionally I get lovely reviews saying nice things, but I haven't had one in a while and asdfghjkl I'm sorry I'm almost crying again._

_Just thank you, anon, for making my day a million times better than what it started out as._

_This whole chapter is just dedicated to you and your prompt ok._

_I think I did something like this before, in one of the request chapters, where Sherlock came back and John didn't believe it and stormed out and didn't return for like, three hours._

_Something like that._

_Anyway, anon, I'll do another one! But I'm gonna need a SWAT team ready to mobilize, street-level maps covering all of Florida, a pot of coffee, twelve Jammy Dodgers, and a fez._

_Hope you enjoy it, anon, and you're the most awesome human being ever :'D_

_I had to listen to some depressing music to write this. Really didn't improve my mood, but it gave me a fair bit of inspiration! I suggest listening to Too Much by All Time Low, The Best Of You by Foo Fighters, I'd Come For You by Nickelback, Nuvole Bianche by Ludovico Einaudi, Everything by Lifehouse (and no, I don't mean LITERALLY everything, I mean the SONG Everything), and a few others. You can listen to some of these on YouTube (or on your iPod if you're awesome enough to have them) while reading, as it really does help. I don't own these songs, or Sherlock!_

_OH! By the way, the title of this chapter is inspired by the Hunger Games, so well done for you if you noticed that!_

* * *

_Chapter 19 - Real Or Not Real?_

* * *

Sherlock shouldn't have been that surprised.

Three years he was gone. Three _very_ long years, in which there was a lot of fighting and gun shots and wounds and coffee and stalking and Moriarty's men.

He hadn't expected it to take so long. He hadn't expected that he'd return to find John...

Well.

Like _that_.

He had thought about his return carefully. John would be shocked, obviously. No doubt Sherlock would be punched.

A lot.

And no doubt John would probably storm out. Or faint. Or cry. Something along those lines.

Looking up, "How to tell your flatmate that you're not actually dead," on Google, surprisingly enough, wasn't all too helpful. The majority of the results involved confusing your roommate or pranking your flatmate or, as one WikiHow result said, "How To Deal With Romantic Feelings For Your Flatmate: 9 Steps."

Needless to say, Sherlock gave up after that.

He planned his return carefully. He broke the news to Ms. Hudson, who was quite shocked and did, indeed, faint. He was there when she woke up, and he explained that he survived, _how_ he survived, and what he was doing all those years. Along with all that, he made one very clear point.

"You mustn't tell John that I am alive," he told her, pleading, "he can't know. Not yet, and not through someone else."

"Oh," she exclaimed, eyes wide, "oh, but he's an awful mess, Sherlock!" Tears prickled her eyes again, "He has to know-"

"-and he _will_," he interrupted her, nodding, "I will tell him, Ms. Hudson. But not now," he shook his head, "not yet. Do you understand?"

She froze, then nodded, closing her eyes and sniffing. She tugged him into a hug and he hugged her back.

He left, after that. John wasn't supposed to see him, so staying at Baker Street that close to the time when John returned from work was dangerous.

Sherlock had organised accommodation with Mycroft. He set Sherlock up in a flat that was just around the corner from where Irene Adler used to live, which put Sherlock on edge. However, he persevered, as he planned his official return.

* * *

He decided it would happen on the following Friday.

John would return from work, find Sherlock in the flat, and they would have the entire weekend to sort out whatever needed sorting out. That way John wouldn't miss any work, and they had as much time as they would need.

He planned it carefully. He had Ms. Hudson find out what time John would be returning from work and make sure he wasn't going out anywhere that night, or over the weekend.

On Friday, an hour before John would return home, Ms. Hudson let him into the flat. She told him how his things were packed into boxes, but that John hadn't done anything with them. He kept them in the bedroom upstairs, and had moved into Sherlock's bedroom.

Sherlock had spent that hour looking around the flat carefully, deducing. John's things were practically the same as they were three years ago. Medical books on the shelves, laptop on Sherlock's desk, smiley-face spray-painted on the wall, case-files covering the coffee table-

Wait. Why did John still have the case files?

Sherlock pushed the deduction to the back of his mind, not dwelling on it for too long. He was about to look for his violin when he heard it.

The familiar footsteps on the stairs, walking painstakingly slow.

It was John, obviously. Walking with... The cane? He was using it again? Of course he was using it again, Sherlock's 'suicide' would have put John under pressure and stress, among other things.

John reached the top of the stairs, opening the door and walking through.

He noticed Sherlock, stopped, then sighed, smiling.

"You're back again!" he said, his smile slowly forming into a grin, "Fantastic. I need your help."

Well.

Sherlock wasn't expecting _that_.

"J-John-" he began, but John cut him off.

"-I know, I know, 'It's a simple case, John, just look at the victim's shoes!'" John froze then, and laughed. "The shoes!" he cheered, "Of course they didn't check the shoes! That's good," he pointed at Sherlock, "nice to see you're still clever." He took out his phone and sent a quick text, popping it back in his pocket when he was finished. He looked at Sherlock again, narrowed his eyes for a split second, then shook his head and walked into the kitchen.

"So how long's it been," John called out from the kitchen, "a week? For me, anyway."

Sherlock was still in shock.

A week?

What was John talking about a week for-

Oh.

_Oooohh._

Of course.

"You think I'm a hallucination," Sherlock called out, watching John carefully as he walked back into the room, this time carrying a steaming cup of tea. John shook his head.

"No, I _know_ you're a hallucination. Big difference." He took a sip of his tea, smiling as Sherlock sat down. "Anyway," he continued, "you're here just in time. Lestrade's been harking me about this case, with the girl and the locked room?" He waved his hand, "You probably know about that. The shoes, though. I'm heading to the lab on Monday, I need you there to help me identify the mud on her shoes. Should tell us where she was, which narrows down exactly where the killer took her from. We find that out, we can track him down."

Sherlock blinked. John _actually believed_ that he was a hallucination.

He was gone for three years. He hadn't expected John to get this bad.

"John..." he began, and John looked up at his expectantly, "you know I'm real, yes?" John started shaking his head, still smiling. Sherlock continued, "I'm not a hallucination, I'm real, I'm here. I didn't die, I faked my death to take down Moriarty for good! It worked!" At this point, John looked like he was about to start laughing, but Sherlock pressed on, "John, you have to listen to me-"

"'John, you have to listen to me!'" he interrupted Sherlock, holding back the laughter, "I had Molly and Mycroft's help, I tracked Moriarty's men for three years, you would die if I didn't save you!'" He started chuckling, "Yes," he said, smiling, "I know all this. This is the fifth time you've told me!"

Sherlock froze. Was John kidding? He looked so sure of himself, though. It was like John thought he was talking to Sherlock- the _real_ Sherlock- but wouldn't let himself believe it.

He was living in a misunderstanding. It was like, whatever John believed, was a complete lie.

The weekend carried on like that. John still believing Sherlock was a hallucination, Sherlock doing all he could to try make John believe he was real. He had handed him cups of tea, which John had accepted, but didn't drink. He would take the cup, thank Sherlock, then leave the cup on the table to go cold. Sherlock tried everything to make John believe him. He tried squirting toothpaste in his face, doing the shopping, doing more experiments, making things explode, pouring cold water down his trousers, dropping ice-cubes down his trousers, locking doors, flushing the toilet when John used the shower, breaking things, sticking a mysterious green glob of slime to the ceiling, turning the room upside down.

Nothing made him believe, though. By Sunday evening, Sherlock was wrecked, and John still thought he was a hallucination. Every time Sherlock did something, John would smile and fix it, like he didn't mind.

Sunday night had them both sitting on the living room, drinking tea.

"I don't get it," Sherlock began, and John looked at him, "why don't you believe me?"

John looked at him for a second, then sighed, putting his cup down and turning to face Sherlock. "I saw you die," he said simply, "I saw you fall. The first two years..." he took a deep breath, "...the first two years were very hard. I struggled so much, I became such a wreck." He rubbed his eyes, "Eventually I accepted it. I had to. You were gone, and sitting around here being depressed wasn't helping anyone. It was around two or three months ago that I started getting the hallucinations. I would see you in a crowded street, or I'd look out the window and see you across the road. Only for a split second, though. It's like as soon as I saw you, you would run off, or you would turn into someone else who had the same coat, or the same hair, or similar eyes." Sherlock remained silent, watching John carefully.

"You started visiting me, then," John continued, "I would see you hanging around the flat, or you would follow me around in the shops. I knew you weren't real, but it gave me a little bit of hope. So I figured," he shrugged, "what was the harm? Only I could see you. You were like my little secret. You helped me cope."

John stayed quiet after that, occasionally sipping his tea. Sherlock hadn't said a word, his mind running a mile a minute, processing everything John had told him.

"I have to admit, though," John said after a few minutes, and Sherlock looked at him, "this is the longest you've stayed. Usually I go to bed and you're gone in the morning." He chuckled, "It's like I'm slowly slipping into insanity, and you're just helping me along. Bit not good, but at this point..." he paused, then sighed, putting his cup down again. "I'm going to bed," he mumbled, standing up. "If you're still here in the morning, you'll probably be following me to the Yard, right?

Sherlock frowned. Why would John be going to the Yard? Unless...

He had said that he needed Sherlock's help. Which meant that, whenever John saw Sherlock, Sherlock would help John with his work. What work? Why was he working a case on his own?

Simple.

"You're the Yard's consultant," Sherlock said simply, and John shrugged.

"You died. Someone had to take up the job. I learned how to deduce things, from what you told me when you were still here. I expanded on it, I learned how to do it myself. I need more time to look than you did, but I'm not doing a bad job. Lestrade thinks I'm the 'new Sherlock Holmes'." He laughed, "God knows I don't want that title." He stayed silent for a moment, then tapped the back of his chair. "Anyway," he said, sighing, "I'm going to bed. Good night." He padded his way across the room into Sherlock's old bedroom, closing the door behind him, leaving Sherlock alone to think.

* * *

The following morning, John and Sherlock made their way over to New Scotland Yard. John was surprised to see Sherlock in the flat the following morning, but didn't question it, eating his breakfast quickly, grabbing a few case files off the table, and rushing out the door. He waited for Sherlock to pass him before locking the door, then rushing to the curb to stick his arm out and yell for a taxi. One pulled up to the curb swiftly, and they clambered in, Sherlock shutting the door while John told the cabbie their destination.

Sherlock had tried talking to John during the drive, but John ignored him completely, not even looking at him. When they arrived at the Yard and John paid the fare, he apologised profusely.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, not looking at Sherlock, "I can't speak to you. No-one can see you, remember, so as far as they know I'd be talking to myself. I haven't reached _that_ level of insanity yet. I'm sorry. I can talk to you at home, just not in public."

Sherlock merely nodded, walking into the large building after John. John walked straight up to the front desk.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade, if he's in," he said, "tell him I want him to come with me to look at the girl's body from the Henderson case, would you?" The secretary eyed something behind John, and John frowned. She buzzed for Lestrade.

After a few moments Lestrade came out, followed closely by Donovan. They both had their heads down, looking at a case file, arguing over something. John was about to say something, when they both looked up.

Donovan screamed, jumping. Lestrade yelled something, taking a couple of steps back. John frowned, eyes wide, looking down at himself.

"What?!" he panicked, "What is it?!"

Donovan lifted a shaky hand, pointing at something behind John. "B-but," she stuttered, and Lestrade cut her off.

"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD!" he yelled, looking behind John. John froze, still looking down at his legs, when it hit him.

_You're supposed to be dead._

He turned around slowly, staring at Sherlock.

"You're supposed to be dead," he repeated, eyes wide.

Sherlock looked at him, eyes pleading. "I tried to tell you," he said simply, "you wouldn't believe me."

"You BASTARD!" John yelled, lunging forward and tackling Sherlock into a hug. He clung to the taller man, and Sherlock hugged him back. "Jesus, Sherlock!" John gasped, "This whole time you were there, and I thought you weren't bloody real! Jesus!"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbled, clutching John, "I tried to tell you, I'm so sorry..."

"You're real," John gasped, tears stinging his eyes, "you're alive, you're real!"

Donovan gripped Lestrade's arm, clinging to him as they watched Sherlock and John finally reunite.

* * *

_I wonder if we can get #Flangst trending on Twitter. #probablynot #CANWETRYANYWAY_

_I hope you enjoyed this, anon! It took my over five hours to write! :D_

_I don't like the ending, though._

_ANYWAY._

_Muchlove to you all!_


End file.
